Once Upon A Case
by magentacr
Summary: Sequel to 'For Whom Could Ever Learn To Love A Beast'. Cured from his beastly disease, Sherlock returns to London with Molly, and takes on a new, classic-story-inspired case.
1. Very Interesting Creatures, Bees

_AN: Hi guys, welcome back to part two of my Sherlock and Molly fairytale series, following on from 'For Whom Could Ever Learn To Love A Beast', though you probably could get by reading this as a standalone. Following on in theme as well as canon from that story though, this story will be based on two classic/children's films/stories, so when you think you've figured one or both out, please let me know in the comments. Or just say hi, either way I love to hear from my readers._

 _Of course I do not own any characters belonging to Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, Disney etc, and no copyright infringement is intended._

 _So without further ado..._

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 **Chapter 1 - Very Interesting Creatures, Bees**

 _May 14th 1870 - Kilburn, near London_

The boy was no older than nine years old, and yet felt like he was carrying the weight of the whole world on his frail little shoulders as he ran, his expensive clothes were getting caked in dirt, and torn by brambles and branches whipping past him. Far behind him he could make out his mother's heartbroken cries of his name, but he couldn't turn back now.

He dashed away the tears from his cheeks, his dirty hands leaving streaks across his face that he couldn't care less about. He was solely focused on the tracks coming up ahead of him, and the shrill whistle of the train incoming from his left. Sliding a little in the mud he changed his course, running parallel to the tracks as his uncle had shown him, looking over his shoulder for the approaching train. Soon the carriages where whistling past him and he put on an extra burst of speed, nowhere near enough to keep up with the speeding locomotive, but enough to make the carriages seem relatively slower as they passed him by.

When the time was right he leapt up, pulling himself into an open carriage, where other stowaways and hitchhikers passively regarded him before looking away again. Chest heaving, the boy took a seat on the carriage floor, leaning back against the wall and watching his home disappearing from view in the changing scenery outside the door he'd just clambered through. He wasn't sure where he was going, or what he would do when he got there, all he knew was his life as he knew it was over, and it was all his fault.

 _Meanwhile - The Streets of London_

"John, keep on his tail, and when you reach the main road, try and steer him into Harrison street!" Sherlock called to his companion over the slapping of their footsteps and those of the fleeing suspect on the rain soaked road.

"Why, what are you... Sherlock!" John barked angrily, as his friend disappeared from his side, into the shadows. Despite his huffing, he trusted his friend implicitly, and kept his attention on the killer he was supposed to be herding into whatever Sherlock was planning. He barely flinched as the man fired off a couple of shots over his shoulder at him; he could see the trajectory was way out.

"Just you try that again, and see if I won't shoot back. I won't miss either" John growled under his breath, gaining ground on the man and veering left to force the suspect right. As he intended, the suspect took the path of least resistance, down Harrison street, and John was hot on his heels, though his eyes flicked about searching for Sherlock. He spotted him moments before Sherlock acted; crouched on a low roof ahead, he leapt out onto the suspect as he passed, his coat flying out behind him like gigantic bat wings, and bore the man to the ground with enough force to knock him unconscious. Sherlock himself rolled his landing, jumping to his feet with a victorious grin and dusting himself off.

"Nice catch. But does every plan of yours involve hurling yourself off a building?" John panted, coming to a halt beside his friend. Sherlock snorted, and both men descended into their usual post-adrenaline-rush giggles for a few seconds, before Sherlock pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and held them out to John.

"Would you like to do the honours?"

"Lestrade's?" John questioned the source of the cuffs as he took them and crouched down beside their captive, "I suppose one of us should go find him and lead him back, we lost him a good few streets back."

"No need." Sherlock responded, and John looked up just out of time to prevent his friend firing the suspects gun into the air.

"Sherlock!" John snapped.

"What? It works doesn't it?"

"We talked about this! No stray shots in built up areas." John insisted, getting back to his feet after binding the prisoner, "You're a scientist, of sorts, you know that what goes up must surely come down, those bullets could still hit someone! I've seen cases of it before you know."

"As have I," Sherlock agreed, a twinkle in his eyes "I once acquitted a man who had the rather poor timing to be threatening his neighbour with a gun he had no intention of using, over some petty domestic dispute at the time a bullet fell from the sky and killed said neighbour. A -" he paused as their captive groaned, and delivered a swift kick that quietened him, "Where was I... oh yes, a gunshot was heard by the neighbours, but an old war veteran noticed it wasn't as loud as it should have been, and I was successfully able to prove that the sound and the bullet in fact came from a gun fired in the next street over."

"And yet you still fire into the air!" John pointed out.

"Oh do stop harping on about it, I calculated the trajectory myself, unless someone is stargazing on their roof over in Cromer street, it'll be perfectly fine. And here is Lestrade now... You took your time, Inspector!"

 _Meanwhile, 221b Baker Street_

"...covered in blood, gave me the fright of my life. You'd think I'd be used to all his antics by now, but apparently not." Molly related to her friend. She and Mary were seated on 221b's long sofa, cups of tea before them on the coffee table as they talked and waited for their husbands to return from their crime-fighting activities.

"Oh, I don't think anyone could ever be truly used to Sherlock's funny ways, if half of what John's told me about when he lived with him is true." Mary chuckled, "Does he still bring home body pieces from the mortuary to experiment on?"

"Oh yes, though I actually don't mind that so much." Molly confessed "He was doing an interesting one the other day about the development of bruising after death, the results were rather fascinating, and I'm sure it will have great practical application in determining the cause of death."

Mary gave her a speculative look, an indulgent smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "You really are his perfect woman."

Molly blushed, looking down and fiddling with her teacup, though it didn't hide her answering smile. "Well I ...I don't know, I'd like to think so."

Mary opened her mouth to bolster her friends conviction, but stopped as she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye, turning her head to see the partition between the kitchen and the living room sliding open, aided by her thirteen year old daughter, Charlotte and Mrs Hudson.

"Hey Sweetie, is your cooking lesson all done?"

The young girl nodded seriously, standing up straight and doing her best to look the part of a proper host. "Dinner is served." She announced, motioning them to come in. Molly and Mary got up obediently, coming over and taking their places at the dinner table, which over the course of the evening had had Sherlock's lab equipment removed and replaced with dish after dish of delicious smelling food.

"It all looks very good, Charlotte, I can't wait to try some. Is that honey glazed pork?" Molly praised, looking over what was on offer. The large spread reminded her of a time when there was just three of them in a big house, Molly, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, and the older lady would attempt to spoil Sherlock with a veritable feast whenever he chose to take a full meal. Thankfully nowadays there was usually more mouths to be fed to justify the extra food.

"Oh yes," Mrs Hudson chipped in, serving up generous potions of everything onto their plates, "And don't worry, we've left some in the oven to keep warm so those husbands of yours don't miss out on a hot meal when they get back."

That was not too much longer, as it turned out, as they'd all taken only a few bites of their meals when they heard the door opening downstairs, and the unmistakable tones of Sherlock and John's banter.

"I don't care if it was true, Sherlock, if you keep telling the drivers their wives are cheating on them, we'll soon run out of cabs that will take us."

"Oh please, I've only told two that, and wouldn't they prefer to know? Besides, do you even realise how many hackney carriage drivers there are in London? It would be improbable for me to manage to offend them all."

"If anyone could manage, it would be you."

"And yet, they still stop for me quicker than they stop for you."

Molly and Mary shared an amused smile, before Mary swallowed her food and called out.

"Dinner is on the table boys, if you would deign to finish your bickering and get up here!"

As all the women giggled, and Mrs Hudson jumped up to get extra plates out, two sets of footsteps hurried up the stairs, and Sherlock and John appeared in the doorway, exuding their usual post-case glow of excitement and smugness.

"My apologies for keeping you waiting ladies." John announced charmingly, kissing his daughter on the head and wife on the cheek as he made his way around the table to sit between them.

"No need, we already started without you." Mary cheekily replied.

Sherlock stood at the door still, eyeing the table sceptically.

"Where is my microscope?"

"On the desk in the bedroom. I moved it myself, keeping all the slides with it as they were." Molly quickly appeased him, just stopping herself from adding an endearment to the end of her speech as knew it would make him uncomfortable when they had company, even if it was just the Watsons. Sherlock nodded, trusting Molly's handling of his equipment, and seated himself next to her, letting her fill his plate for him.

"How do you like the pork, Sherlock? I cooked it especially because I knew it was your favourite!" Charlotte piped up, the second he had taken a bite. She had been infatuated with him since their first meeting, little over a year ago, much to the amusement of everyone except John. Her father always tensed up when she spoke to Sherlock, glaring at his friend in a way that promised a painful retribution if Sherlock were to say anything to upset his baby girl. Sherlock himself always appeared indifferent to both Charlotte's interest and her father's threatening stares, though Molly was certain he knew where the line was and was toeing it very carefully.

"Toothsome, despite your mishap with the honey." Sherlock answered, a slight twinkle in his eye as John's warning glare sharpened. "So good of you to replace the jar you smashed."

"It was only good manners." Charlotte replied happily, a deep blush staining her cheeks at his compliments, "Oh, but do tell us how you knew, please Sherlock?"

John's death stare abated somewhat at his daughter's excitement for Sherlock's deduction, and he rolled his eyes instead as Sherlock smugly launched into an explanation.

"Very interesting creatures, bees. Were you aware that each hive has an individual scent that the bees within it can identify it by? And the flavour of the honey produced by a hive is greatly influenced by the flowers the bees have harvested from? I detected these subtle differences in the flavour of the porks glaze-"

"You're lying, Sherlock" Mary sang, cutting him off, "You know I can always tell. How will Charlotte ever learn if you keep that up?"

"Fine, I felt the stickiness of the floor under my shoes, and saw the new jar on the shelf when I came in." He confessed "What I said about bees was true though, they are truly remarkable."

Dinner continued to pass with companionable chatter, but only when it was finished and the Watsons had left did Molly bring up the days case, stepping into his arms for a comfortable embrace.

"How did the case go? Did you catch that dreadful man?"

"Oh yes, quite literally, the fool was a runner." Sherlock explained, with an eye roll that barely disguised the fun he had had. "Of course there are still some loose ends to tie up at Scotland Yard, they can't seem to do anything themselves."

"I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow. You should get some rest, you haven't come to bed since this case begun."

"Yes, I suppose I should." He submitted, turning towards the bedroom and then turning back again, as a thought occurred to him, "No clients dropped by while I was out, did they?"

"No. get some rest." Molly giggled, giving him a push in the right direction.

"Worth a shot. Tomorrow then, I hope something good comes up, or I may be forced to take on a 6..."


	2. No Need To Get Up

**Chapter 2 - No Need to Get Up**

 _May 15th 1870 - 221b Baker Street_

Molly would never admit it to Sherlock, and she trusted in his lack of social intuitiveness for him not to deduce it, but when he was off on a case with John, she found her life in London to be far less interesting than she had hoped for. When they had first arrived, she had been attending Mrs Nightingale's nursing school, eager to continue her pursuit of a career in medicine, but had learnt nothing she hadn't already known from a combination of her days assisting Micheal Stamford in Finchley's mortuary, Sherlock with his leprosy and all the other little scrapes he got himself into, and all the medical books she had read. And once she had finished her training she had found it impossible to find a doctor surgery or hospital that would hire her for more than the most menial medical tasks, not like the offer she had had back in Finchley, to have run of the morgue she once assisted in. It had been tempting, but Sherlock belonged in London, and she by his side.

Of course being married to Sherlock did keep her on her toes in many ways. If he didn't have a case he got restless to the extreme, a danger to himself and others around him as he played with guns, dangerous chemicals and poisons, and it was all Molly could do to temper him a little so no-one got hurt. His more sedate experiments which produced time-sensitive data would often need to be monitored while he was out crime-solving, a task which he would entrust to none but her. Occasionally, if John was unavailable, Sherlock would invite her to assist on his cases, but those days were relatively uncommon. Other times, he would come back from a case with all manner of scrapes and injuries, often pursued by a fussing John Watson, but would ignore his physician friend in favour of Molly's tender care. If such times filled her heart with fear and concern for his chosen profession, she chose not to say anything, understanding his need for the work, and simply vowed to be there to do what he needed of her.

So while she could never complain that her life was completely without excitement, those bright dazzling occasions did rather leave the times between, such as this day, disappointingly empty. Therefore, when her whiling away the day with a book was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by shrieking from Mrs Hudson when she opened it, Molly leapt to her feet to investigate.

"YOU! How dare you darken this doorstep, how dare you come back here after what you did!?" Mrs Hudson was shouting at their visitor in a rare display of temper.

"A good morning to you too, Mrs Hudson." A confident female voice answered, an edge of impatience colouring the otherwise naturally sultry tone. "I'm here to speak to Sherlock, I'd ask you to fetch him for me, but I'm certain if he is home, your caterwauling will have drawn his attention already."

"You stay away from our boy Sherlock, you've done enough damage already!"

Molly descended the stairs in time to see Mrs Hudson's attempt to slam the door on their visitor, but she was foiled by a fashionable, point-toed high heel shoe wedged in the doorframe. The door was pushed back open, giving Molly her first good view of the woman on her doorstep. The woman was beautiful, pale smooth skin contrasting with blood red lip stain, barely concealed by the net half-veil hanging from her fascinator. Her black gown was fitted to show off her perfect hourglass figure in an almost outrageous fashion, and showed a scandalous amount of ankle. Molly couldn't help but feel a prick of jealousy that such a beautiful woman would call on her husband, especially given her suspicion over the woman's identity from her interaction with Mrs Hudson.

"Tut tut, that was rather rude of you Martha... insubordinate, even, for a housekeeper." The woman continued to talk to Mrs Hudson, clearly not noticing Molly's arrival, still partially in shadow on the stairs "I doubt Sherlock bothers himself disciplining his staff...I could save him the trouble." She stepped in threateningly, causing Mrs Hudson to flinch back slightly, and Molly decided it was time to intervene.

"Is there a problem here.. Mrs Hudson?" She steeped forward into the light, locking eyes with Mrs Hudson, showing silent solidarity. Mrs Hudson opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by their guest, who pasted on a saccharine sweet smile to address her.

"Well hello, you must be the new Mrs Holmes, whom I've been hearing about, it's so nice to meet you. Is dear Sherlock about?"

"Sorry, he's out right now... perhaps I could..?"

"That's fine, I can wait. Pop the kettle on, will you Mrs Hudson?" The woman demanded, slipping past the pair of them and heading up the stairs for 221b.

Molly and Mrs Hudson exchanged a nervous glance that contained volumes, before Molly followed her visitor, confident that Mrs Hudson would take the necessary steps to alert Sherlock and bring him home. When she reached the living room she saw that the woman had made herself at home, taking a seat in one of the armchairs by the fire and so Molly took the seat opposite her, in Sherlock's chair, trying not to frown at the way the woman had popped her shoes off and curled her legs up under her on the chair, as if she owned the place.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name." Molly ventured, though she suspected she already knew.

"You may call me Irene, any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine." She introduced herself, still laying on the charm a bit thick for Molly's liking.

" _Are_ you a friend?" Molly softly challenged "I mean... I know who you are, and Sherlock told me what you did, deliberately infecting him with that terrible disease."

"Oh that... that was just a little misunderstanding." Irene waved it off, "You needn't worry, I'm here on friendly terms this time around."

"So you mean to apologise?" Molly pushed, though Irene merely laughed at the idea, a deep throaty chuckle, filled with condescension which reminded Molly of Sherlock at his worst.

"Oh my dear, apologies are hardly my style, and meaningless social platitudes are certainly not Sherlock's." She mocked, "But if you insist upon them, perhaps you should be thanking me. If I hadn't infected him and forced him to lock himself away in that big old mansion of his, you'd have never met him, or had him as a captive audience to woo. How else could such a pathetic and timid slip of a girl hope to capture the heart of the great Sherlock Holmes? Granted you've a pretty face, but you don't seem like anything special to me."

If Molly had merely disliked the woman on first acquaintance, she positively hated her now, feeling the anger at the woman's insults churning up, like a fire in her gut, and she was on her feet without a thought.

"You... you'd do well to remember, _Irene_ , that this is my home as well as Sherlock's and if you do not treat me with respect I will not hesitate to turf you out onto the pavement myself, and you can wait there for whatever you wish to discuss with Sherlock. At which point he probably would not listen to you anyhow, as he doesn't take kindly to anyone upsetting his wife, since I have, in fact, ' _captured his heart'_ , a feat you certainly never managed to accomplish, and not for lack of trying, from what I hear!"

To her surprise the woman actually laughed again, no longer condescending, but with genuine delight, clapping her hands at Molly's display.

"Oh bravo, that's more like it! Now I can see what he sees in you, if any man ever needed a woman who could put him in his place, it was Sherlock."

Molly frowned, feeling a little silly being on her feet still, and sat herself back down. "I wouldn't say he needs putting in his place as such, more..."

"A firm yet loving hand?" Irene finished for her with a smirk, "Yes, that's where you have an advantage over me, it's the loving part I struggled with. I could never have been that for him." She looked far away for a second, and then shook her head, rearranging her face into a welcoming smile. "So, tell me, are you carrying his child yet?"

Molly's eyes widened in surprise at the intrusive question, her jaw dropping slightly, but her hesitation was helpfully disguised by Mrs Hudson's timely arrival with the tray of tea. The older lady's bustling, and thinly disguised contempt for their guest as she asked how Irene took her tea, gave Molly a welcome chance to collect herself.

"No, not yet." She seamlessly picked up the conversation as Mrs Hudson left them, "Do you have children, Irene?" She deflected.

Irene's face clouded for a second, her hand coming up to fiddle with her necklace, but she too was spared an immediate answer by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Both women turned to look as Sherlock appeared in the doorway, his sharp eyes rapidly taking in and assessing the scene, as John Watson hovered behind him, face set in his soldier's mask.

"Sherlock!" Irene greeted him gleefully, her face brightening again as she lowered her feet to the floor to rise, before Sherlock held out his hand in a stopping gesture.

"No need to get up, Irene." He instructed, before walking past her to stand in front of Molly, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh!" Molly realised she was in his seat, which of course he would want to sit in to face Irene. She jumped up, slipping past him heading for the sofa, where John was perched as though ready to spring into action at a second's notice, but she didn't get very far. Sherlock's hand snaked around her waist, pulling her back onto his lap as he sat, and she blushed at the intimate gesture.

She knew it wasn't out of affection however, Sherlock didn't believe in committing public displays of affection, particularly when an enemy of his might see it, and decide they could use his feelings for her against him. His doing so now in front of Irene could only serve one purpose, a message, loud and clear, that he belonged to her and she to him, and that was to be respected.

"Sweet, though an unnecessary gesture" Irene commented shrewdly, "I'm not here to seduce you, that ship sailed long ago."

Sherlock nodded curtly, though made no attempt to move Molly now his message was across.

"Then why are you here?" He asked. "I wouldn't expect an apology, from you of all people."

"Call it a peace offering. A case, I know you like those." She proposed with a sultry smile.

John snorted loudly from his position on the sofa.

"The nerve! To act like you're doing him a favour when you are clearly asking one of Sherlock And after what you did to him, you expect him to help you?!"

Irene's confident smile was strained as she answered, "That was a long time ago, I was hoping we could move past -"

"You gave him leprosy!" John shouted accusingly.

"He reneged on his promise to protect me!" Irene snapped back, causing Molly to frown. That's not how she remembered Sherlock telling it.

"I would have still protected you, just not the way you wished to be protected." Sherlock answered, his voice perfectly calm in stark contrast to the others, "I didn't renege on the deal, you simply misunderstood it."

"Oh and you made certain I would." Irene laughed bitterly "Those dates, the flirting... all to make me think you were going to give me what I wanted, while your carefully worded agreement left you plenty of room to wiggle out of it. A deal to make a politician proud, I'm sure Mycroft was."

Sherlock's jaw clenched momentarily at the jab about his brother, but otherwise he held his composure. "You wouldn't have agreed to it otherwise. Moriarty needed to be stopped, you saw what he was planning, and I can attest to the effectiveness of his bottled affliction myself, thanks to you."

Irene opened her mouth, seemingly prepared for another snappy retort, but quickly rearranged her face to something more pleasant, and her hand fluttered up to her necklace again. "Yes, well, we're agreed then, there was wrong on both sides, but that's all water under the bridge now, right? Will you take my case, or won't you?"

"You haven't told me what it is yet." Sherlock pointed out. "But provisionally, yes."

"Really?" John said in disbelief, now addressing his friend, "That's it, not even an apology and you're just going to trust her now?"

"Help, not trust, John." Sherlock clarified, with an unapologetic smile to Irene, who nodded in acceptance. "And as ever, you are seeing but not observing, John. Irene isn't the one who needs our help, her son is."

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 _AN: Hope this manages to upload okay with all the notification troubles. If you have managed to spot the new chapter, know that updates will be twice weekly, Wednesdays and Sundays, so check back around then for updates :)_

 _And big thanks to Elbafo and the guest who left me reviews for the last chapter, I love hearing from you :) and for those who followed and favourited, welcome along for the ride!_


	3. Forgive Me For Being Suspicious

**Chapter 3 - Forgive Me For Being Suspicious**

 _May 15th 1870 - 221b Baker Street_

"Son? She... you have a son?" John picked up his jaw to say, staring wide eyed at 221b's guest.

"Yes. Why so shocked Dr Watson?" Irene answered, looking a touch offended by his surprise, "Surely you know where babies come from."

A touch of embarrassment was added to John's shock, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to mask it. "Yes... well... and the father? Is he..."

"Deceased." Sherlock answered for Irene, his eyes scanning her for clues, "and recently, that much is obvious from her choice of attire. It was supposedly an accident, but she suspects foul play, that's why she's come."

"Wait, I thought you said she'd come because of her son?" John said in confusion.

"Both." Irene simply answered.

"What happened?" Molly, who had been quietly listening up to this point, spoke up. Despite her initial dislike of the woman, she felt a stab of sympathy for her and found herself more than willing to give her a second chance.

Irene spared Molly a small soft smile, before looking over her shoulder at Sherlock.

"Where would you like me to begin?"

"It would appear we've missed rather a lot in our absence. Best you start at the beginning, but do try not to bore me." Sherlock stated without malice, settling back more in his chair and tenting his fingers in front of his lips.

"From where you left off? Alright then." Irene nodded and curled her legs up under her again, settling in for a long story. "Naturally I had to lay low for a little while after sabotaging Moriarty's laboratories. Thankfully he seemed content to believe that you had been directly responsible, and had been exposed to the disease in doing so, but I take no chances where James Moriarty is involved. I wasn't alone, his entire criminal network went somewhat quiet while he raged over it, but he soon got over it, and I was able to return to... _business_ as usual. That's how I met Richard of course, about two years after."

Molly started to open her mouth to ask what Irene did for work, but Sherlock cut over her with a deduction that gave her the answer to her question.

"He got you pregnant."

Irene nodded, without a hint of shame for her profession. "A difficult spot for a working woman such as myself, I'm sure you imagine. I'd seen it enough times with the other girls, some kept the children, raised them alone, others visited those terrible back-street doctors to rid themselves of the problem." Molly winced and saw John do the same. "I hadn't made my mind up yet when the naive young fool came back, fancying himself in love with me after our encounter. I thought telling him my condition would chase him away, it would most other men, but not him. He asked for my hand in marriage instead. I was dubious at first, but it was clear he wasn't a gold digger like the rest, he had plenty of money of his own... so I gave in, I didn't have many other options after all." She shrugged, but then her expression softened. "I'm glad I did."

"You fell for him." Molly contributed.

"Yes." She admitted, a lone tear escaping and rolling down her cheek, "He was a good man, a good husband and father."

"Right, jumping ahead to his alleged murder?" Sherlock impatiently prompted.

"Sherlock!" Both Molly and John scolded his lack of tact, but Irene just sniffed a laugh and wiped her eyes.

"It's quite alright, I would expect no less of Sherlock, it's why I came to him." Irene reassured them, wiping the stray tear away and putting a brave face back on. "It'll be a week Sunday. Richard and his brother had just come back from a hunt, and Richard was out in the stables, with the horses, feeding and grooming them... we do have stable boys for that of course, but Richard did like to do it himself after a hunt, said it helped them bond. But something spooked the horses this time, before he had them in their stalls... there were too many in too much of a panic and they..." she took a pause and a breath to compose herself "they trampled my husband to death."

Molly grimaced in sympathy, getting up and offering her handkerchief to Irene, whose eyes had misted over again, though she was stubbornly blinking them back. She gratefully took it, dabbing her eyes as Molly seated herself again, this time in the desk chair next to Sherlock.

"And your son, where does he come into this?" Sherlock pressed, seemingly untouched by the emotional display.

"He was in the yard outside the stables, playing with his father's hunting horn. He always struggled to get a note out of it, but this time he did. He went running into the stables to show his father, and thankfully managed to avoid getting trampled himself, but of course he found... I heard him screaming from up at the house, and rushed down, but by the time I got there Oliver was gone and Richard was dead, it was terrible." She dabbed her eyes again with one hand, the other yet again fondling the locket around her neck.

"Gone?" Sherlock prompted, leaning forward.

"Ran away. His uncle, Edward, Richard's brother got to the stables before me and said he saw Oliver, that Oliver was blaming himself blowing the horn for startling the horses, before running. He didn't try to stop him, said he thought he was just running back to the house, or to one of his little hideouts around the property, but we've searched everywhere. We even asked about town, but nobody saw him that night."

"And so you've come to me." Sherlock finished, looking entirely too smug for the end of such a somber tale. "The brother, where was he when your husband was in the stables?"

"Taking the dogs back to their kennels. He always did prefer the company of the dogs." Irene answered, a harsh bitter edge to her voice. "Of course that wouldn't have taken as long, he could easily have been back to the stables in time to help Richard... or to kill kim."

"You suspect him?" Sherlock asked, his tone and expression giving nothing away as to whether he thought she may be right or not.

"More than suspect, I'm sure he did it, I just can't prove it, not without your help." Irene had no trouble admitting.

"He had motive then? Not a falling out, nothing so recent, no this is something that runs deeper." Sherlock deduced, "You said Richard had money, did that money come from an inheritance perchance? One that Edward was not recipient of, and was bitter about?"

"Yes. It was before we met, but Richard told me about it." Irene explained "His family are from old money, passed down from generation to generation, and as the eldest, Edward was set for a large portion of the inheritance. But when he was dishonourably discharged from the army, their parents disowned Edward, they cut him off and wrote him out of the will. Richard got it all when they passed."

"What did he do, to get dishonourably discharged?" John enquired with a frown. Sherlock could practically see the cogs turning in his head considering the possibilities, and knew he would have no trouble recruiting John for this one.

"They never told me." Irene admitted, "Richard was convinced it was some kind of mistake anyway, he looked up to his big brother far too much to accept it. He never rejected him like their parents did, and when they were gone, he gave him his old rooms back at the house, and a generous allowance. Edward was outwardly grateful of course, but I know a snake when I see one, and he was never truly satisfied with it. And now with Richard dead and Oliver missing... he stands to get everything he wants. That's no coincidence."

"No... the universe is rarely so lazy." Sherlock mused.

"Forgive me for being suspicious, but wouldn't you also stand to gain from your husband's death?" John spoke up. "Rather convenient timing, right after a law gets passed enabling a woman to inherit property."

Irene's head whipped to him, eyes a cold fury. "Have you amended your will yet to provide for your wife in case of your unexpected demise, Dr Watson?" At his telling wince she continued. "Given your chosen lifestyle, I don't recommend a delay. My husband hadn't either, so no, I do not stand to gain anything. The law isn't retroactive, so I won't even get back what I brought into the marriage, I stand to lose everything without Oliver, with him I would be financially no better or worse off than I was before my husbands death. Does that satisfy you?"

"Okay... okay, just considering all the options." John held up his hands placatingly.

"Speaking of options, there's a third one you left unsaid." Sherlock pointed out, narrowing his eyes at Irene. She pursed her lips, clearly uncomfortable with the answer.

"The brute may have strongly suggested that were I to become his mistress he would keep me in the manner in which I've become accustomed. He said it shouldn't be a problem for a _whore_ like me. Barely a week after his brother's passing, the nerve! As if I would ever dishonour Richard's memory in that way. Besides, even in my days as lady of the night, I was always picky about my clients, and he certainly would not qualify!"

"That was this morning then, it's what drove you to my door. Seemingly no grief for his brother's passing, an eagerness to take what belonged to him... oh Irene, you're making this far too easy for me." Sherlock reprimanded with a smirk "It's a good thing you're bringing me two cases in one, hopefully finding your son will prove a more interesting challenge."

"You _will_ take the case then, now you've heard it?" Irene asked breathlessly, needing the confirmation. "You understand I can't guarantee your fee if... if things go badly for me."

Sherlock waved the comment about money off, as Molly had seen him do many a time for those of lesser means.

"You know I don't need your money, Irene. Besides, I believe this falls loosely under the category of the protection I promised you in repayment for your previous services. As I said, I never reneged on the deal." Sherlock reminded her.

Irene's eyes widened. "You would still ... Even after what I did to you?"

"I see no reason why not to. Despite Mrs Hudson and John's reaction, I'm not one to bear a grudge myself, I see no point in wasting my mental capacity on them." Sherlock haughtily asserted.

"Except with Mycroft." John contributed, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock, "That childish feud you have going on with him, that neither of you will explain to me."

"That's not a grudge, it's a feud... and general irritation at his continual interference in my life." Sherlock shot back at him, before redirecting his attention to his client. "So, when can we visit the corpse?"

* * *

 _AN: Wow that came around quick. Looks like notifications are back up and running now, so you can see when I'm posting, but please please if you haven't, pop in in the reviews to let me know you're out there reading this, it means the world to me. And thanks to those who already have, you know who you are!_


	4. Look At Your Hands

**Chapter 4 - Look at Your Hands**

 _May 15th 1870 - Kilburn Undertakers office._

"You may wish to wait up here, Mrs Holmes. The morgue is no place for a lady, it could be quite distressing for you." The mortician said, stepping in her way to prevent her following her husband down to view Richard Leeford's body, and gesturing to a seated area where she could wait.

"Actually I -" Molly started, about to explain she once work as an assistant in Finchley's morgue, but Sherlock overrode her.

"She can handle it. Far better than you can, I might add, going by the clear signs of your alcohol abuse. Come along, Molly." He threw over his shoulder as he continued down the stairs past the stunned mortician.

Molly offered the man a kind smile and shrug, following her husband into the cold underground room. The body had already been laid out on a slab for them, covered modestly by a sheet with only his feet poking out the bottom, name tag tied to his toe. They stood either side as Molly drew back the sheet, and Sherlock allowed himself a brief smirk in admiration at his wife's unflinching demeanour in face of the badly battered corpse. For a minute there was silence as they both visually examined the corpse, until Molly as usual broke it.

"No defensive wounds." She muttered. "Apart from this unusual puncture wound on his hand, his hands and arms are virtually uninjured, like he didn't raise them to protect himself at all."

"Yes. And the blows of the hooves... I see only stamp wounds, as if he were already on the floor, not any kicks that would have put him there. I need a closer look at that wound on his hand." Sherlock said, manoeuvring around to Molly's side of the table, as she stepped aside to allow him to look closer at the hand.

"Clean, neat, made with a sharp knife, just the tip of the blade." Sherlock observed, before looking sidelong at Molly, his lips twitching in delight, "Forget the horses, this is what killed him."

Molly's brow furrowed, struggling to follow Sherlock's logic "A tiny wound like that? It would hardly have bled. What am I missing?"

"All in good time." Sherlock assured her "Speaking of which, it has gone three, Edward should be on his way into the city for ' _business_ ' by now if Irene is correct. Time for us to visit the murder scene." He rubbed his hands together in excitement, turning and striding out of the room. Molly hurried to re-cover the body and follow him up the stairs, also pausing to thank the mortician for allowing them to take a look before finally catching up with her husband outside, looking severely disgruntled at the lack of hackney carriages in the area.

"Looks like we'll have to walk. Good thing it isn't far, and it is a nice day." Molly pointed out optimistically, smiling at the idea of taking a stroll with her husband. Sherlock sighed, jamming his hands in his pockets, lest she get any ideas, and started to walk, though he did adjust his long strides to a pace she could easily match. The walk to Irene's home would take at least fifteen minutes, plenty of time for Molly to ask the question that had been bugging her since Irene had told them her story.

"What exactly was the deal you made with Irene all those years ago? I mean... when you first told me your story, you made it sound like she wanted ... well, a relationship with you. But today she said it was protection she wanted, and you agreed. So which was it?"

"Couldn't it be both?" Sherlock simply replied with a shrug.

Molly said nothing in return, just continued to look at him questioningly, knowing he would explain in his own time. Sure enough it was less that a minute before he continued, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"That was what she said to me, when I asked if our arrangement was business or pleasure, though to be fair to her, her usual business _is_ pleasure. I assume you realised from her tale that she was a prostitute, though she was no common brothel or street corner girl. No, she was a higher class of courtesan, a specialist as it were. People paid a lot for what she had to offer, and she amassed a small fortune for herself working her craft.

"And with that wealth as always, came no shortage of people wanting it from her, men trying to tempt, trick or trap her into marrying them so that they could legally absorb all her profits. She was always far too cunning for them of course, careful in the clients she took... I already told you she liked to have insurance against them, usually blackmail she could use against them should they attempt to do they same to her. But all that was rather tiresome for Irene, and so she was looking for a more permanent solution, one that would allow her to continue the work she enjoyed, the money that came from it, and her independence.

And then we met, on a case from my brother. I had no interest in her money or anything else she had to offer, and that of course intrigued her. And I'll admit to rather enjoying her case, the intellectual sparring we had. She must have sensed a kindred spirit in me, as I also tired of young women throwing themselves at me for my money and looks. To her, the perfect solution to both our problems seemed obvious; we should marry. Our would-be suitors would be out of luck, and since neither of us was interested in having a wife or husband, we could continue with our independence as though we had none."

Molly gulped, averting her eyes to the surrounding countryside. She knew it was a long time ago, and Sherlock had been a different man then, but it still hurt a little to hear him speaking so coldly about marriage, the bond they now shared.

"That... that sounds like quite an offer." She said weakly, to fill the air.

"Mmm, it was tempting. But when two ruthless people enter into a marriage out of convenience, what happens when the marriage becomes _inconvenient_?" Sherlock mused, as they turned up the long pebbled driveway to the Leeford's estate. "It could have got messy, so all things considered I rejected her offer. Multiple times. Until I needed her help with Moriarty, and then it didn't look like I had much choice if I wanted her help."

"But you couldn't go through with it, that's why she infected you with leprosy." Molly added what she already knew, "but you said you were still going to protect her, how?"

"I proposed that I do just that, propose. We could have got engaged, but put off setting the date indefinitely. It would have been enough to put off a great deal of our pursuers, but would enable either of us to end it at any time should a better offer come along." He shot a sidelong smile at his wife, reminding her that she was the better offer. She smiled back, her previous misgivings abated, but one curiosity still bugged her.

"Why didn't she agree to that, it sounds like exactly what she would have wanted?"

"It would have been, had she been as indifferent about me as she claimed to be." Sherlock knowingly answered. "She let her feelings get the better of her, the lie become reality, and she didn't even realise it."

"Well, you are easy to fall in love with." Molly beamed at him, causing Sherlock to snort in derision and roll his eyes, though there was a self-satisfied smile on his face.

"You and Irene must be the only ones to think so." He said sceptically.

"Didn't you once say we were nothing alike, me and her? Something about her shoes not being a very good fit on me?" Molly playfully ribbed him. She had understood at first meeting Irene that morning, and seeing the woman's confident and domineering demeanour, but she had also seen a softer side to the woman that she understood so well - her love for her family.

"I stand by that, though perhaps time has softened her too, as it did me." Sherlock admitted softly, before lifting his voice again to slightly louder than necessary as they came upon the house. "If you'd told me back then that I would be investigating who had killed Irene Adler's rich husband I would have been in no doubt it was her."

"You'd probably have been right. Though if I did I'd have picked a mark with no living relatives to complicate matters. Oh and I wouldn't be hanging around for your investigation, I'd be in Paris by now - or perhaps Prague - spending his money." Came Irene's dry response, sauntering out from around the side of the house in the same clothes they'd seen her in earlier, with the exception of the veil. "The stables are this way, I assume you'll want to start there."

She turned with a beckon and started leading the way without looking to see if they followed, which of course they did. It was a large estate, showcasing how wealthy the family was, although not as large as Holmes Manor, where she and Sherlock had spent years exiled with leprosy. The house and gardens seemed to be better tended to however, probably by a full staff, and had its own barn, stables and kennels at the back, and a paved courtyard dividing them from the back of the house.

"This is where the boy was practising with the horn?" Sherlock asked, surveying the area as they strode across the courtyard.

"Right there, on that spot." Irene pointed, though she kept her head partially turned away. They came to a stop as Sherlock stood where she was pointing, then crouched, looking about presumably from the boys viewpoint. His eyes closed for a long second, presumably while he filed away any information he had picked up, and then snapped open. He nodded to himself and then continued on to the stables without a word.

"Leave us." Irene commanded the stable boy as they entered, who nodded dropping his things and disappeared out of another door in the back.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed on the door, before sliding across the room at large. He held out a hand behind him in a sign for Molly and Irene to stay where they were as he prowled about the stables, taking a closer look at one of the locks on a stall, and the horse in it, before moving deeper. His hand skimmed along a fence, pausing at a particular point, before he turned away, to the wall where the saddles and other riding paraphernalia were hanging. Taking a long whip down he examined it, turning his back towards the wall as he did.

"YHA!" He suddenly shouted, cracking the whip in the air. The horses all startled in their stalls, whinnying and rearing, trying to run but with nowhere to go. The women shrank back towards the front door as the heavy beasts collided with the stall walls and gates, making them rattle, but hold. Within a minute it was over, the horses settling with just a little nervous stamping.

"Was that really necessary?" Irene demanded, looking a little pale.

"I thought you liked whips, Irene." Sherlock smirked, curling the whip back up and hanging it back on the wall. "But yes, as a mater of fact. I was testing a hypothesis."

"Will you tell us? You have a theory, I can see it." Molly asked, placing a comforting hand on Irene's shoulder, causing the usually independent woman's eyes to widen in shock.

"The hunting horn wouldn't have spooked the horses into a stampede, they would be well used to the sound, so the obvious question was 'what did?', or rather 'who?'." Sherlock pointed out, slowly walking down the middle of the stable towards them. "Supposing it was Edward as you believe, Irene, then the horses would already have been in their stalls by the time he had taken the dogs to their kennels and returned through the back door. As we just saw, the horses didn't break or jump out of their stalls when startled, as is borne out by the condition of the doors and locks, no sign of forced exits. So they were let out, their stalls unlocked and opened before Edward drove them into a frenzy with the whip."

"Okay, but how could he have done that without Richard noticing?" Irene asked.

"We, uh... we think he might have already been dead at this point." Molly volunteered, turning to Irene sympathetically.

"Or close to it." Sherlock added.

"Then how. How did he die?" Irene demanded, ignoring Sherlock and looking to Molly, the voice of sympathy. But Molly had no answers for her.

"I... I'm not sure." Molly diverted her gaze from Irene, looking to Sherlock instead for the answer.

"Then I shall demonstrate." Sherlock said, far too gleefully. He sidestepped so the low fence protruding from the end stalls was between him and them, and then beckoned. "Molly, if you would come here?"

Approaching Sherlock as instructed when he had just told them he was about to demonstrate a murder technique probably should have scared Molly more than it did, but she trusted him completely. "What do you need me to do?" She asked faithfully, coming to a stop directly in front of him, with the fence separating them.

"You're already doing it." Sherlock told her in a low rumble, smirking. "Look at your hands."

Molly distantly heard Irene's surprised gasp from behind her, and slowly lowered her gaze to where her hands had naturally come to rest on the beam between them, before letting out a shocked gasp of her own. In Sherlock's firm grip, hovering less than an inch above the back of her hand was a thin, sharp blade, a letter-opener, and it was crusted with dried blood.

"I found it wedged behind a beam near the whip, not a great hiding place for a murder weapon, but then no-one was looking for one." Sherlock explained when her eyes jumped back to his. "When Edward came in the back entrance and called Richard over to 'speak' with him, Richard leant on the fence up the other end and was stabbed through the hand. That fence bears the mark where the knife went through his hand into the wood beneath, as well as a small but visible blood stain."

"I still don't understand, how could such a small cut kill him, you said yourself there was hardly any blood." Molly asked.

"Of course you don't, you're trusting to a fault." Sherlock sighed, and then thunked the knife down, leaving it quivering in the wood between her fingers. "You could never understand such underhanded tactics. But you understand, don't you Irene?"

"The blade was poisoned." Irene readily supplied, making Molly gasp and draw her hand away, as though the poison could jump the gap between the blade and her fingers. "Of course, Deadly Nightshade."

It was Sherlock's turn to look surprised, sharpening his gaze on Irene and circling the fence towards her.

"How did you know what poison it was? No, wait, don't tell me. Some grows nearby, on the grounds in fact."

"On the edge of the estate, near the train tracks." Irene nodded.

"Show me."

And so the three of them made their way out to the edge of the property, the neatly trimmed lawns giving way to nature's wildness; briars of brambles, thickets of weeds and a small pond all but obscured by bulrushes. They were fast approaching the railway when suddenly Sherlock stopped in his tracks, crouching to examine something on the ground.

"Did Oliver play up this way often?"

"Of course not." Irene said almost in offence "We forbade him from coming anywhere near the tracks, it's too dangerous."

"Well he was here, these are certainly a child's footprints." Sherlock asserted, turning off their current path and following the trail only he could see. "The last time it rained was Saturday night right through to Sunday morning, the ground would still have been soft Sunday evening when he ran this way, leaving perfect impressions that the dry weather has preserved. He was hurrying, slipping in the mud. Here, he turned parallel to the tracks..." he was half jogging, following the tracks until he came to a sudden and complete stop, "The trail stops here."

"What does that mean, where did he go?" Irene asked desperately, her hand once again clasping the locket at he throat.

"On the train, obviously." Sherlock answered, staring ahead at the trains path. "To London."

* * *

 _AN: Thanks to Elbafo, Sherlolly-Shules-Hamiltrash and LRRH17 for your reviews on the last chapter :) Still no guesses yet as to what stories I am doing this time, you have nearly all the clues by now for the first one, do have a go, and I'll shoutout whoever gets it right._


	5. Where Is My Husband, Sherlock?

**Chapter 5 - Where is My Husband, Sherlock?**

 _May 16th 1870 - 221b Baker Street_

After their visit to Irene's estate in Kilburn, Sherlock had sent Molly home, while he himself had been out all night gathering information. Irene had helpfully provided him with a fairly recent picture of her son, which he had been showing around train stations and to members of his homeless network, hoping to find out where in London the boy had disembarked, but his search had turned up nothing. He just hoped John had had better luck, having sent him to the card game Irene had told them Edward played at, and so was surprised to find Mary waiting for him on his return to Baker Street at the crack of dawn - sans John, but with a very John-like dangerous smile on her face.

"Where is my husband, Sherlock?" She asked, with the false sweetness that usually meant someone was in trouble. Clearly John had told her where he was going, and in hindsight Sherlock could see why that might lead to this unpleasant scenario.

"A poker house, in Edgeware Road." He grumbled.

"Why, Sherlock? Why would you send him to a poker game when you know he has a gambling problem?!" Mary demanded, losing all pretence at not being angry.

"I knew he _had_ a problem, it's been a while, a lot has changed since then!" Sherlock defended himself, "And I did ask him how his poker game was and he said it was good."

"Of course he did, just like he told me he could handle it, and now it's five o'clock in the morning and he still isn't back." Mary patiently explained. "And you of all people should know that addictions never truly go away."

"For goodness' sake!" Sherlock muttered, with the air of a man sick of repeating himself, "I was never an addict! I was a user, I could stop any time I wanted."

"And I'm sure John is telling himself the same thing right now." Mary pointed out, taking the wind right out of Sherlock's sails. "Go get him, please."

"Fine." Sherlock accepted, casting a glance up the stairs before sighing and turning to leave again.

"I'll tell her you checked in." Mary offered.

"I don't ' _check in_ ', I'm my own man." Sherlock grumbled, even though he knew Mary was giving him a doubtful look behind his back.

The back room off the bar in Edgeware road was cloudy with cigar smoke, preventing the small light above the table reaching into the deepest corners of the room, though that didn't seem to bother any of the occupants. A scantily clad woman detached herself from said shadows, sliding out the doorway past Sherlock, as the two heavies at the door gave him and his wallet a visual inspection before allowing him entrance.

It didn't take long to spot John at the table; a fair sized stack of chips in front of him, cards in his right hand and a whiskey in his left on its way to his lips. He took only the smallest of sips, and Sherlock deduced that he'd been making the one, maybe two drinks last all night, making a show of drinking while keeping his mind sharp. Yet despite the low quantity of alcohol in his blood stream, his pupils were blown wide, the result of a very different chemical in his blood stream: adrenaline. Ever the adrenaline junkie, if John wasn't getting his fix on the streets with Sherlock or the Afghani desert, he got it here at the poker table, the higher the stakes the better. Mary was right, he should never have sent John here.

"John." He called, coming to stand over his friend's shoulder. Two pairs, shame they were sixes and threes or it wouldn't have been a bad hand. It was certainly a hand one could fold on without regret, if your name wasn't John Watson. "John!" He repeated.

"Oh, hi, Sherlock." John finally replied, only taking his eyes off the table for the briefest of seconds. "What are you doing here? Raise." He pushed a small stack of chips forward.

"We have a case to discuss, John, let's go." Sherlock urged him, banking on the promise of a different kind of danger to lure John away from the cards.

"Right, let me finish this hand and I'll be right with you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He could just blurt John's hand to the table at large to hurry him along, but Molly wouldn't be happy if he came home with another black eye from impatience, so instead he stepped back, allowing his friend to finish his game in peace. Another scantily clad woman appeared from the shadows, trying to get his attention by hanging on his arm, but he shrugged her off, not sparing her a glance as he watched the table. Predictably John lost the hand, and Sherlock stepped back up to collect him as his opponent collected his winnings.

"Okay John, let's go."

"Now hold on a second, Sherlock" John said, not budging "It's only fair for Chris here to give me a chance to win back what I lost."

"Yes, and if you'd won you'd be wanting to give _him_ a chance to win it back." Sherlock pointed out, "Cash in your chips, John, we're leaving."

"Who'd you think you are, his father?" One of the other players piped up.

"Yeah, if a man wants to play another round, he'll play another round."

"Get lost if you don't want to play."

"Yeah, put up or shut up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, letting their jeering roll off him like water from a ducks back.

"John." He said once more, giving his friend one more chance to come quietly.

"Just one more, Sherlock, then I promise -"

"Deal me in." Sherlock cut off his excuses, yanking out a chair and tossing some bank notes at the dealer to convert into chips. If he couldn't reason John into leaving, he would just have to end the game by relieving him of his funds.

"Sure you want to do this Sherlock?" John asked in surprise, though the glint of challenge was in his eyes "You know I know all your tells."

"Positive." Sherlock answered plainly as a pile of chips was stacked in front of him and the dealer started dealing out the cards.

In the early days of their acquaintance, when John had first moved in with him, the discharged army doctor had been low on funds, but high on pride - reluctant to accept charity from the rich eccentric, and even uncomfortable with borrowing, seeking to pay back what he owed as soon as possible. Sherlock had already deduced John's love of gambling, and therefore had solved his friends money problems by allowing him to win the money off him whenever he could sense John's money worries mounting.

John had no idea, of course, that Sherlock had ever _let_ him win anything. He may have suspected the timing of the games, but believed it was his own skill that had enabled him to walk away with Sherlock's money. In actual fact, Sherlock had deliberately planted tells he knew John would believe, and had won a carefully calculated number of hands with his customary arrogance to convince John he was playing in earnest, before raising the stakes on a round when he knew that John had a good hand, and thus allowed him to take the whole pot at the end of the night. This served dual purposes of making sure John didn't have to take on too much work to prevent him helping Sherlock on cases, and maintaining the fiction that John was better at cards than him, something he knew would come in useful one day.

And now it seemed that day had come. All the cards had been dealt and one man had already folded, leaving Sherlock, John, and two others. Sherlock had a full house in front of him, a good hand, good enough to beat whatever John had; either a straight or a flush, he couldn't be sure. Only one of the other men had a better hand, but from what Sherlock had seen, he shouldn't be too hard to intimidate into folding, and 'Chris' was clearly bluffing on nothing. This would almost be too easy.

Letting John see all the right tells, Sherlock steadily let the ante grow higher, raising by small amounts each time, losing Chris along the way. When the time was right, John subtly humming with anticipation beside him at the high stakes, he upped the ante one final time.

"All in." He said, slowly pushing his chips into the middle of the table.

"Ah, I'm out." The last man said, dropping his cards on the table. Four of a kind, he could have won, but this was a battle of far greater wits.

"Your loss Frank. He's bluffing." John smirked.

"Am I? It's a lot of money for a bluff." Sherlock coolly pointed out.

"Not for you, I've seen you throw away more."

"Then put your money where your mouth is."

John's eye narrowed and he hesitated for a split second, before matching Sherlock's bet, pushing all his chips forward.

"I call."

Sherlock kept his eyes on John as he tipped his cards onto the table, relishing in the look of surprise on John's face as he realised his miscalculation, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed reflexively at the huge loss he'd just made. Defeated, he let his own cards fall onto the table, a flush as Sherlock had suspected.

"To the victor the spoils. I'll be taking my money now." Sherlock gloated, pushing the chips to the dealer to cash in. He didn't have to say another word to John, who now, out of funds for ' _one more game_ ' was getting to his feet and putting his jacket on.

Shielding their eyes from the bright sunlight as they emerged from the dingy gambling rooms onto the street outside, the men turned to walk the short distance back to Baker Street, where Sherlock had no doubt and John no idea Mary would still be waiting. A short distance away from prying eyes and ears, Sherlock divvied up his winnings in his pocket, before holding John's share out silently to his friend as they walked.

"Keep it." John grumbled, his demeanour heavy with humiliation and shame at his lack of control. "I don't need your pity, you won it fair and square."

"I don't do _pity_ , I simply have no need for your money. Besides, by now Mary will have told Molly all about ... _Our_ error in judgement." Sherlock ground out the half-admission, "And I'd rather not arrive home to face them with pockets full of incriminating evidence, and yours with an incriminating lack."

John gave an awkward cough "...When you put it like that..." he took the coins out of Sherlock's hand, weighing them in his hand and staring guiltily at them for a few seconds, before a small smile broke free. "Not a bad taking for the night, I was doing quite well for myself before you came along."

"Well in that case..." Sherlock snatched the coins back, giving John a calculating look-over before returning to him the precise amount of coins he had started the night with, pocketing the rest.

"How-?!"

"You're painfully predictable John, your habits haven't changed in nearly fifteen years."

"Yeah, speaking of which;" John carefully put the coins back in his coin purse as they walked, "Either you've spent a lot of time practising in your exile, or I never really won against you, did I?"

"Mm, Mrs Hudson was quite a card shark in her day, but even she knew better than to let me play her." Sherlock shot down that theory looking as smug as a cat with a bowl-full of cream, "Honestly, John, the main skills required to play poker are an ability to read people and to calculate and play the odds, both of which are specialities of mine. It's astonishing you ever believed you could beat me. Arrogance is quite unbecoming on you."

John's eyebrows shot up as his head whipped round to face Sherlock, his expression clearly saying; _YOU_ _are lecturing_ _ME_ _about arrogance?!_ , which Sherlock met with smile that suggested that, yes, he did appreciate the irony. Before John could settle on an appropriate insult to voice, however, Sherlock turned the conversation back to serious matters.

"But back to the case. Did Edward make an appearance, before you became lost in the game?"

"Yes, in fact he didn't leave all that long ago, I'll have you know. I only stayed as long as I did to ensure I didn't arouse suspicion leaving right after him." John indignantly pointed out.

"Yes, I'm sure that was your sole motivation." Sherlock dryly replied. "Well what did he say? What did he do? I need to know everything."

"Yes alright, calm down, I'm getting to it. He had visitors, during the game, he left the game to talk to them, but I still caught fragments of the conversations." John explained, "The first was a well dressed man in a suit, looked like a banker of some sort and he was after some money Edward owed him."

"Gambling debts, no doubt. Certainly explains Edward's pressing need to get his hands on his brother's inheritance." Sherlock pointed out.

"That's what I thought, and he seemed pretty confident he would be paying the man back soon, and I think I know why. It.. uh... doesn't sound good for Oliver." John tentatively warned, watching Sherlock's face for a reaction to the news and getting nothing but the usual indifference and slight impatience. "There was a gang, who came to speak with him; a man and woman, mid-twenties, of African descent, and an English lad of about the same age-"

"The hyenas."

"You know them?" John asked, not really surprised.

"I know _of_ them." Sherlock corrected, "Shenzi and Banzai are twins, they grew up on the streets, all of them did, and formed a tight knit group with Ed. They were but teenagers when I left London, but they already had quite the reputation for being spotted hanging around murder scenes, looking for items of value to steal. That's how they got the name. Though they'd steal anything from anywhere if you were willing to pay."

"Were you?" John asked sceptically, thinking they sounded just like the kind of people Sherlock would utilise.

"Of course not. Where's the fun in getting someone else to do the stealing for you?" Sherlock smirked.

"Well, it sounds like they're into more than petty theft now. I don't know for sure, but I think Edward hired them to kill Oliver." John said, frowning in true sorrow, yet resignation to the darker edges of the world they lived in.

"I need more than you ' _think'_. What did they say, _exactly_?"

"Not much. Edward said 'Is it done?' And the woman, she said 'Yeah, we took care of it. You won't be seeing that kid ever again.' Then he handed them a coin purse, and they left. I wanted to follow, but he was cashing in his chips and I daren't let on we were onto him, so I stayed a few more rounds, and... next thing I know you were there."

"How long ago?" Sherlock demanded, stopping on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street and turning his full stare on John

"Maybe an hour? You think they might not have killed him yet?" John asked, his whole demeanour perking up with the hope.

"I don't know, I don't know their methods, as far as I know they've never killed before, and their answer was vague, far too vague." Sherlock descended into muttering. "I need to speak to them personally." He turned and started walking the other direction.

"Wait!" John called, making to leave the doorstep and follow "I'll come with you."

"No." Sherlock commanded, turning to John, though continuing to walk backward away from him, with his hand stretched out in the age-old sign for his friend to stop. For a second John feared he was being benched in punishment for his distracted delay at the card game, but Sherlock continued, "There's too much chance they'll recognise you from the game and tell Edward we're onto him. Go home with your wife and get some rest, I'll summon you if I need you."

John hesitated, still reluctant to let Sherlock face a gang of potential murderers alone, but Sherlock was right as usual; the long night was wearing on him and if he didn't get in at least a short power nap he wouldn't be of any use when he was needed. Knowing John couldn't argue with his logic, Sherlock turned his back again, and disappeared into the London foot traffic.

* * *

 _AN: I read somewhere that in the ACD books John has a gambling problem, and decided to run with that in this chapter, hope you enjoyed._

 _Well done to Elbafo, the first to figure out not one, but both of the stories that inspired this one. If you haven't got it yet, keep trying as it should all before clear._

 _also thank you to Sherlolly-Shules-Hamiltrash and Anasthesia93 for their comments :)_

 _See you all on Sunday for the next chapter ;)_


	6. Three, and You Keep The Necklace

**Chapter 6 - Three, and You Keep the Necklace.**

 _May 16th 1870 - Soho, London_

Many of the public houses and bars were closed at this time in the morning, but some stood loyally open for the early starters or late finishers. Having recently received payment, Sherlock was certain the Hyenas would be found here, and he knew just how to find them. Besides scavenging, there was another reason they were known as the hyenas after all; their laughter. Sure enough, walking past The Dog and Duck, Sherlock heard the distinctive swell of Shenzi's high cackle overlaying her brother's rich deeper tones and Ed's discordant chuckling beside it. With a quick dart of his eyes up and down the street, Sherlock slipped inside the pub.

The gang were gathered around a table at the back that was already stacked with empty glasses and bottles, tossing a jingling bag of coins backwards and forwards among themselves. With a nod to the bartender, Sherlock made his way over.

"Profitable night?" He asked, pulling out a chair so it loudly scraped across the tiled floor, and sitting himself down. All three sets of eyes at the table turned suspiciously to him, and the bag of coins disappeared under the table, presumably into Shenzi's pocket.

"What's it to you?" She spoke for the group, giving him a careful look-over.

"Just trying to make polite conversation." Sherlock shrugged disinterestedly, before leaning in confidentially, "but if you'd rather we skipped straight to business, well that would suit me just fine."

"Business, eh?" The three shared greedy smiles, "Well then, how can we be of service?"

Keeping his eyes fixed on the Hyenas for a reaction, Sherlock pulled out the now somewhat crumpled picture of Oliver and laid it on the table. His vigilance was rewarded as their eyes all widened simultaneously, exchanging glances.

"I need information about this boy. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find him, would you?" Sherlock asked with all the innocence of a cat sharpening its claws.

"What makes you think we've seen him?" Banzai asked a little too quickly.

"Yeah, why would we have seen him?" Ed backed him up, "Why'd you wanna know anyway, you a copper?"

"Ed!" Shenzi hissed.

"No, I'm not with the police." Sherlock assured, "Though if I were, I imagine I'd be more interested in where you got that exquisite piece of jewellery hanging around your neck." He nodded to the necklace Shenzi wore, an intricate beadwork of gold and precious stones joined either side of a polished stone scarab beetle. "It looks to me very much like a piece from the set of Egyptian treasures recently stolen from the British Museum."

Shenzi's hand flew up to grip her ornament, a dozen emotions flickering across her face as her mouth worked trying to find a response.

"Hey, I know who you are now!" Banzai spoke up instead, "You're that private detective, Sherlock Holmes, the one who recently came back from the dead"

" _Consulting_ Detective." Sherlock corrected, "And yes. I'm here on a case from this boy's mother to find him and bring him home, so now you know who I am and what I'm capable of, I ask you again; what do you know about where I can find the boy?"

Once again a silent conversation seemed to fire back and forth between the Hyena's eyes, as Sherlock waited. It was Shenzi, as usual, who finally spoke up for them, apparently recovered from her bout of shock.

"We'd love to help you, really we would. But what we have here y'see, is a bit of a... what'd'you call it... a conflict of interests. You're not the only one with clients Mr Holmes, and ours, well, they expect discretion. They need to know they can trust us, honour among thieves and all that. Telling you about one of a client's little problems, that would be bad for business." She blathered. Getting impatient and wanting to push her to a conclusion, Sherlock started to get to his feet. Sure enough; "But perhaps! If you were to compensate us any loss of business we might suffer for giving you this information..."

Rolling his eyes at the inevitable request, Sherlock sat back down, fishing in his pocket for the coins he had taken off of John. He had had a feeling they would come in useful.

"Three Crowns." He offered, one by one laying the coins out on the picture as Banzai and Ed watched hungrily. Shenzi though, looked unimpressed.

"Only three?" She haggled

"Three, and you keep the necklace." If the British Museum wanted their jewellery back, they should have come to him about it in the first place.

"Okay, you got a deal." Shenzi finally agreed, "What do you want to know?"

"This 'conflict of interest' of yours. Tell me about it, what did your other 'client' want with the boy?" Sherlock asked, careful not to give anything away himself.

"He wanted 'im dead." Banzai answered, "Said the boy stood in the way of him inheriting a lot of money, so he needed us to find him and kill him."

"And did you?" Sherlock inquired with casual interest, while his insides clenched in something akin to fear. He'd rather not have to tell Irene her son was dead, who knew how she would take the news?

"Of course not, what kind of people do you take us for?" Shenzi scolded, though her offence seemed insincere. "We ain't no child killers, we got standards."

"Yeah, and he was a slippery little rat - ow!" Ed yelled as he was simultaneously elbowed by Banzai and kicked under the table by Shenzi.

"So he gave you the slip?" Sherlock confirmed, smirking. So, the boy was alive still, and he was crafty enough to evade three goons. This promised to be an interesting chase after all. "And yet here you sit with pockets full of cash?" He pointed out.

"Well, what he don't know can't hurt him, right?" Banzai smiled, and the three broke into their raucous laughter once again.

"Right." Shenzi agreed, "Smart kid like that, either he'll do well for himself on the streets and stay there, or he won't and he'll die without our help. Either way, our guy never sees him again, so we figured we'd take our payment and everyone is a winner."

"Unless I find him and take him home, which I assure you I will." Sherlock pointed out, getting to his feet and slipping the photo back into his jacket pocket as the Hyena's laughter died, his words sinking in. As he walked away, he heard their muttering behind him.

"What happens when he finds out we lied to him?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure it's nothing good."

"He was gonna kill the kid for less..."

Of course, Sherlock could have mentioned the fact that Edward wouldn't be able to do anything to them when he returned the boy, as he would be too busy getting arrested for killing Richard, but instead he just kept walking, leaving the hyenas and the bar behind. In terms of locating the boy, he had gained no new leads, but at least the game was still on.

* * *

A short cab ride back to Baker Street later, Sherlock climbed the stairs to 221b, taking in the smell of freshly cooked vegetable soup, and the murmur of voices above him.

"What do you have for me, Wiggins?" He asked immediately as he came through the door, unsurprised to find his chief informant sitting at the table, tucking in to a bowl of soup wedged in between the assorted science equipment.

"And a good day to you too." The scruffy young man cheekily replied in between spoonfuls of soup. "Bit late for lunch ain't ya? If I had a missus who cooked like yours, I'd not miss a single meal."

Over by the counter, Molly smiled at her feet in flattery, as she got an extra cup out of the cupboard to pour some tea.

"If you had a ' _missus_ ' at all you might spend a little less time bothering mine." Sherlock retorted, his eyes following his wife's movements and giving her a small nod of thanks as she passed him his cup. "Molly knows what kind of hours I work and meets my needs accordingly."

"Jus' cos she knows it don't mean she should put up with it." Wiggins countered, gracing her with a wide smile as she put a cup of tea down in front of him as well.

"Remind me again why _I_ put up with _you_?" Sherlock snapped back a little sharper now.

"Cos I know where the kid is." Wiggins answered in his own time again, not even slightly perturbed by Sherlock's tone. "You ain't gonna like it though."

"Where?" Sherlock demanded, willing Wiggins to hurry along, as he could see Molly reheating some of the soup over the stove and getting out another bowl for him.

"Rumour has it he's running with Fagin's gang."

" _Fagin_." Sherlock muttered distastefully.

"Who is Fagin?" Molly asked from somewhere behind him.

"No time to explain, if I go now I might be able to return the boy to his mother by nightfall-" Sherlock spun to leave, but found Molly already in the doorway, blocking his path with a bowl of soup in her hands.

"Tell me as you eat." She said in a deceptively mild tone.

"No, Molly, you know how digestion slows down my -"

"As does malnutrition. As I recall." She reminded him with the same patient voice and a smile. Recognising an immovable object before him, Sherlock huffed and took the soup out of her hands, grabbing a spoon from the drawer and leaning against the worktop to eat it rather than sitting.

"Good innit?" Wiggins said, clearly enjoying the display before him.

"Shut up, Wiggins." Sherlock snapped "No, actually, don't shut up, tell Molly who Fagin is so I can eat this quick and go."

"Alright." Wiggins acquiesced, putting down his spoon and leaning forward on his elbows on the table as Molly sat opposite him. "When Sherl here left London all them years ago, he left behind a well oiled machine of homeless kids, like me, who were used to making a living being his eyes and ears around the city."

"Yes, his homeless network, like he has again now." Molly nodded in agreement.

"Nah, this is nothing compared to what he had in the day. There's barely a handful of us now, but back then almost every homeless man, woman and child worked for Holmes. They all reported anything of interest to us, his Irregulars he called us, and we ran it back to him." Wiggins proudly told her, "So anyway, when he left, there we all were with no-one to work for anymore. Most the older ones were alright, they'd learned the way of the streets long before, but us kids, we didn't know what to do without Sherlock, with the money we earned from him and the food Hudders sent us off with. That's when Fagin stepped up to take over. O'course he weren't interested in information the way Sherlock was, he was jus' wanted someone to do his dirty work for him. Turned 'em all into pickpockets, but not me, I wanted no part of that, no, I was goin' straight."

"You worked in an opium den." Sherlock pointed out through a mouthful of soup, though whether he had worked that out or Wiggins had told him, Molly wasn't sure.

"Exactly. And I never once nicked anything from my clients no matter how out of it they were. That's integrity that is." Wiggins boasted, "But Fagin, he's got no integrity, he takes them boys in only as long as they's useful to him, anything happens to 'em, he don't care, there's always more where they came from. Reckon he has between ten and fifteen boys workin' for him at any time."

"And now he has Oliver working for him. If he's anything like his Mum he'll be a natural." Sherlock concluded, dropping his empty bowl into the sink and knocking back his tea. "Well, best I go fetch him before he can lighten too many pockets."

* * *

 _AN: Well looks like nearly everyone has the first story now, well done to LRRH17 and the guest. The other story involved should be fairly obvious now thanks to this chapter. And I assume you'll all pick up on the reference back to a certain part of the previous story ;)_

 _And thanks to all my reviews and those following, you guys really keep my inspired, I love you all :)_


	7. Let Them Try

**Chapter 7 - Let Them Try**

 _May 16th 1870 - Mill St, Bermondsey, London_

The decrepit warehouse loomed over a small tributary off the south bank of the Thames, abandoned for the most part due to a rising damp and frequent flooding, or so many believed. In actual fact it was very much 'in business', though not of the legitimate variety. Sherlock slipped in to the seemingly empty building, taking note of rather old patterns in the dust, which revealed to him the location of hidden doorway, no doubt concealing a staircase which formed the back door to Fagin's hideout. He didn't make use of it though, as it would be far politer to use the front door when visiting on business. And so he stepped back into the shadows, invisible to anyone passing by, and waited.

Sure enough, he didn't have long to wait before he heard voices approaching, full of childish glee as they raced up the rickety staircase on the outside of the building Sherlock had seen on his way in. Sherlock stepped slowly out of the shadows, coming close enough to the door to hear the secret knock the boys performed on the one above, granting them entrance. After waiting for a minute to pass, Sherlock followed up the staircase, ignoring the slight creaking it gave at the weight of a full grown man on it, and imitated the knock.

"Hey! You ain't one of us!" The lad who opened it shouted on catching sight of him, and attempted to slam the door shut again. He was too slow however, as Sherlock wedged his foot in the doorframe, and quite easily pushed it back open.

"No, I'm not." He agreed, striding in as though he owned the place anyway. The attic was a fairly large space, with walls knocked partially in, in order to expand it and create cubbyholes, where piles of blankets the boys slept on could be seen. The boys themselves seemed to fill the space, far more of them than Wiggins had estimated. Older ones sat in groups, drinking what smelt suspiciously like gin out of small cups, and puffing on pipes, while younger ones raced about, making play of practising picking one another's pockets of brightly coloured handkerchiefs, while singing a working song. Others still sat around, humming along to the singing as they unpicked the embroidered initials on some finer silk handkerchiefs that they had no doubt liberated from their previous owners. Gradually the noise and movement of the children came to a halt, as they all turned to stare at the intruder in their midst.

Amongst the many eyes Sherlock felt fixed on him, Sherlock spotted those he sought, waiting patiently at the back of the room, half emerged from the cubbyhole that served as his 'office'. As Sherlock approached, he noticed the boys eyes switching to look at their old master, waiting for his word on what to do about their unexpected guest.

"Mister Holmes!" Fagin finally greeted him warmly, offering up a rather exaggerated bow, though without taking his eyes from Sherlock. "What brings you to our humble abode? Never mind this one, boys, on you get." He waved off the lads' curiosity and they obeyed, turning their eyes back to their own tasks, except those which lingered on Sherlock's pockets. _Let them try,_ he thought.

"Fagin." He bowed his head partially in mutual respect, though he feared not to allow his eyes to roam away from his host, scanning the faces of the boys nearby, "I'm here on business, of course."

"Of course, of course. Come along back here to my office, I have sausages in the pan, wouldn't want them to burn." Fagin invited, waving him towards the cubbyhole.

"They couldn't taste much worse!" One of the passing lads called out, much to the laughter of his companions.

"If you want better you can cook them yourselves!" Fagin yelled back, though there was no bite in it, and he was smiling as he looked back at Sherlock. "So what is it this time, you going to try and talk me into using my boys as information gathers again?"

"Have you reconsidered my offer?" Sherlock enquired while on the subject.

"As I told you before, it's not my choice." Fagin said with a shrug "The boys do as they likes, and they likes doing what I tells them too. We have a bond you wouldn't understand, I miss them every time they walk out that door, but they always comes back, and that's their choice."

"As long as they know their other choices." Sherlock conceded. "I'm actually here about a very specific boy." Sherlock pulled out the now rather rumpled picture of Oliver and handed it over to Fagin. As he did, he felt the slightest of pulls on his coat, and instinctively caught the boy's hand who was trying to rob him without looking, using it to gently but firmly spin the boy away from him. Fagin frowned as he looked over the picture, before raising speculating eyes back up to Sherlock's.

"Supposing I had seen the boy...what'd you want with the lad? He's not in trouble is he?"

Sherlock took a second to consider Fagin's reaction before answering. To the boys about - some of whom had crept very much closer to listen, close enough even to see the picture - Fagin might sound genuinely concerned about the boy's safety, though Sherlock could clearly detect it was his own he worried about, that any trouble following one of his boys would soon find its way to him. There was something else there too, something that told Sherlock that the truth would be beneficial, in this case.

"No, not at all." He assured Fagin, "Quite the opposite in fact, he has quite a fortune to claim if he only were to return home." He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratory level, "I've been offered quite a handsome reward for his safe return."

"Have you now?" Fagin asked, leaning back thoughtfully, before a rather fake contrite look came over his features. "Well I'm sorry I can't help you out, but you've seen all my boys out there, and he ain't one of them. Best of luck on your search though."

Sherlock knew a liar when he saw one, but didn't call him on it. After all, there was some truth in what he said; Oliver wasn't amongst his boys at present. If he suspected that Fagin knew more than he was saying... well there were other ways to get the information he needed. He put the picture back in his pocket instead, preparing to leave.

"Very well then. Oh, and incidentally, behind those loose bricks isn't the best place to store all of one's valuables, particularly not in a den of thieves. I suggest you find somewhere better."

Fagin's eyes widened in obvious fear at the discovery of his private stash, and his eyes instinctively shot to his hidey-hole, missing the sleight of Sherlock's hand as he pocketed an item from the smaller stash of less valuable treasures which sat on Fagin's makeshift desk.

"I'll show myself out." Sherlock announced, leaving Fagin to his concerns over his valuables as he made for the door. He felt in the prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, two curious little pairs of eyes following him, the same pairs of eyes that had edged close enough to see the photo, he'd wager. Before he got to the door however, a thunderous knock sounded, not bothering with the secret sequence, but was clearly a recognised and feared one, as the boy manning the door quickly jumped to open it. Sherlock slowed his steps, moving aside as the thickset and dark-browed man thundered into the room, followed closely by a slightly anxious, but spirited young woman and a bull terrier. Sherlock felt another prickle in his mind, a recognition of the girl that he couldn't place, but he pushed it aside as the man, whom he clearly recognised, changed his course for Fagin's office to stop in front of Sherlock.

"What are you doing here, Holmes?" He demanded.

"I could ask the same of you, Sykes." Sherlock retorted. Of course he remembered Bill Sykes from when he was little more than a lad the age of those now anxiously watching the exchange, back when he had once been as valuable a member of his homeless network as Wiggins had been. "But then you always were better suited to the tasks of more dubious morality I required carrying out. I see you've moved up to housebreaking."

Sykes stepped aggressively closer, nose to nose with Sherlock, who didn't even flinch.

"Oh, I've moved up to a lot more than housebreaking. You'll see just how much if you even think about peachin' on us." He threatened.

Sherlock's eyes raked up and down Sykes, taking in the evidence of his ruffled clothes and bloodied knuckles - clearly some kind of fight, but one that didn't last long.

"So I see."

"Boys! We're all friends here, right?!" Fagin popped back up beside them, hopping up and down anxiously, "Mr Holmes don't want no trouble Bill, just a friendly visit, isn't that right?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, not taking his eyes from Sykes, who stepped back a fraction.

"Just a friendly warnin'." Sykes huffed, before turning to Fagin with a nod as the two of them headed back to Fagin's cubbyhole.

Knowing a dismissal when he saw one, Sherlock resumed his path to the door, though he didn't fail to notice the woman who came in with Sykes watching him while the young boys clustered around her, as if she had something to say but daren't. With a tip of his hat to her, he slipped out the door, sure he'd see her again. For now, he made his way down the creaky staircase towards a familiar figure waiting in the alley below.

"No luck then?" John asked, detaching himself from propping up the wall to greet Sherlock at the bottom of the staircase.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock answered, not bothering to ask why John was here. Clearly Molly had been worried about him and sent for John to back him up - an unnecessary, though caring gesture.

"You found something then?" John prompted, falling into step with Sherlock as they headed towards the main road.

In answer, Sherlock pulled the trinket he had stolen from Fagin out of his pocket to show John - an ornately carved locket.

"That's... that's the locket Irene was wearing, isn't it?" John asked, reaching out for a closer examination, which Sherlock granted, handing the locket over.

"Close, but not quite. Same design, but see - the chain is shorter, too small to hang about Irene's neck as hers did. This chain is meant to fit a child's neck, it's part of a matching set, hers no doubt showing Oliver and Richard, and this one..."

"Richard and Irene." John confirmed, opening the locket, before ruminating quietly, "Why would he give this up? He's only just lost his Father, surely he'd cling to any memory of him?"

Sherlock's smile at John's deduction was but a quick flash, but there all the same, before he answered.

"Maybe he handed it over as part of a bargain for Fagin's shelter and training, or maybe one of the other boys took it from him as he slept. It's irrelevant anyhow, what's important is that he was here, and now he isn't." He explained, ignoring passing hansom cabs and turning back off the main road down a quiet alley, with John faithfully following.

"So we're back where we started, he could be anywhere." John sighed, until Sherlock caught his eye with a reproving look. "Oh I see. You have a plan."

"Of course I have a plan, I always have a plan, don't I?" Sherlock smirked.

"No actually, I'm certain at least 50% of the time you make it up as you go along." John corrected. "So come on, what is this plan of yours?"

"This." Sherlock gleefully announced, whirling around and catching the little thief attempting to liberate his wallet. In a matter of seconds he had the boy in an unbreakable hold, despite the boy's struggles and shouts of protest.

"L..let him go!" Another little voice protested, and John turned around to see another little boy, as plump as his friend was skinny, his pudgy little fingers shaking as he clutched John's gun and pointed it at Sherlock. "Let him go, or... or I'll shoot ya!"

"Do it Peter, do it!" The young lad in Sherlock's arms egged him on.

"Oh for goodness sake! You let him steal your gun?" Sherlock impatiently complained, not looking particularly worried at the gun pointing straight at him.

"I didn't _let_ him do anything! If you'd warned me we were about to have our pockets picked I would have kept a better eye on it." John retorted, carefully watching the boy apparently called Peter. He didn't appear to want to shoot anyone, but was nervous enough that his finger might just slip on the trigger and hurt someone anyway.

"I... I mean it, let him go!" He said shakily.

"It's okay lad... Peter, is it? Can I call you Peter?" John tried to pacify him, creeping closer with his hands held up, "My friend Sherlock here is a good man, he doesn't mean your friend any harm" _I think_. "So just give me the gun, eh? Give it to me and no one will get hurt."

"Let him go first!" Peter shouted stubbornly.

"For the love of..." John huffed, moving suddenly and sweeping the boy's legs out from under him at the same time as forcing his arm up, causing the gun to fire harmlessly over their heads.

"I thought you disapproved of firing into the air." Sherlock commented dryly.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John snapped, now keeping the boy pinned to the ground with one hand twisting the boy's arm up behind his back and the other tucking his gun safely away. "So what now?"

"Now we are going to buy these nice boys dinner - a proper dinner, not the scraps Fagin serves - and they're going to tell us everything they know about their friend Oliver."

* * *

 _AN: Thanks again to the usual suspects for commenting :) The next part of the crossover is now well and truly underway. Particularly with these two lads, who are combinations of characters from both stories (hence the names which are in neither) can anyone tell me what two pairs they could play? (Just so I know it makes sense outside of my funny little head)_


	8. One Man and His Dog

**Chapter 8 - One Man and His Dog**

 _May 16th 1870 - Northumberland Street, London_

Angelo was suspicious at first when the bell on the door rang and in walked two street-kids. His fears were quickly allayed however as they were quickly followed by his favourite customer and his companion.

"Sherlock!" He greeted him warmly, waving him towards his usual table, "These with you?"

"Yes, they have some information for me and I promised them a hot meal in return." Sherlock reassured him as John ushered the children into their seats.

"I'll rustle them up something nice, don't you worry. This one could certainly use a little more meat on his bones." Angelo pointed out, scrutinising the one who had been attempting to pick Sherlock's pocket, who scowled at him in return. "Anything for yourself today?"

"No thank you, Molly has already spoiled my appetite with soup. John will though, as always."

"And Sherlock _will_ have some water, at least." John interjected, giving Sherlock his best _doctors-orders_ look.

"Alright, I'll leave you to your business and be right back with your food." Angelo dismissed himself, disappearing into the back of the restaurant again. Sherlock took his seat across from the skinnier of the pair, having already surmised that he was the head of the duo.

"What's your name, lad?" He asked.

"They calls me 'The Artful Dodger.'" The boy boasted proudly.

"I didn't ask what the rest of the rabble at Fagin's place call you, I asked your name." Sherlock corrected, with no intention of addressing the youngster by such a ridiculous title.

"I'm Tim. N' this is Peter." The lad ruefully confessed.

"Well then Tim, and Peter, it might ease you to know that you can say anything you like in here. Our host, Angelo was once a thief himself, and has no love for police, so you needn't fear him grassing on anyone." Sherlock informed them.

"And you? You ain't no friend to the police either?" Tim asked suspiciously.

"I have... an arrangement you could say, with the police." Sherlock explained with a smirk. "I help them solve the crimes that matter, and they turn a blind eye to how I do so. And whom I do so with. If you have nothing more sinister to hide than picking the pockets of the excessively wealthy then you have nothing to fear from me."

"So... telling' you about Oliver... that wouldn't be peachin'." Peter tentatively stated.

"Absolutely not. More... making a very useful ally, for the future." Sherlock assured.

The two young boys looked at each other to confer, but their gazes soon wandered to follow their noses, as Angelo made his way over to the tables, carrying three bowls of delicious smelling food.

"Here you go boys." He announced cheerfully, putting two of the bowls down in front of them, which they immediately tucked in to, "And you, Doctor Watson."

"Thank you, Angelo." John answered, taking his with a little more grace, and taking the time to lay out a napkin on his lap before eating.

"You're a doctor?" Tim asked with a mouthful of food, "How comes you has a gun if you're a doctor?"

"Because I was an army doctor, once upon a time." John answered patiently, "Now I just run around after this one, keeping him out of trouble." As if to back up his words, Angelo arrived at that moment with the a pitcher of water and glasses, as John took it, acting Mother as he poured a glass for everyone.

"And a very good ally he is too." Sherlock commented shrewdly, ignoring the glass John very deliberately set in front of him. "Now, I should think we've proved our trustworthiness enough, what can you tell us about Oliver?"

"I found him wandering the streets a couple o' nights ago, didn't seem to know where he was going, or what he was gonna do, so I brought him back to Fagin. Thought he'd be a good addition to our little family." Tim told them.

"So why isn't he there now?" Sherlock followed up.

Tim looked over at his companion, and then back at his plate.

"It's Peter's fault." He grumbled.

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Is-"

"Alright, lads, let's-" John attempted to calm them.

"I don't _care_ whose fault it was." Sherlock spoke over John, cutting him off, and turning his gaze on Peter. "Tell me what happened."

Peter fiddled with his fork shyly, looking at the table as he answered. "We took him out to teach him how to pick pockets -"

"A little on the job training, if you will." Tim interjected

"- And there was this guy; old, rich, fat... the kinda ideal mark, so Dodger... I mean Tim, played lookout, and I told Oliver to follow me and watch what I did closely. But I wasn't careful enough, and the guy felt me pick his pocket. Me and Dodger started to run, but Oliver, he froze up! He was mighty quick once his legs got to running, but by then the coppers had all come a'runnin, and they got him in the end."

"You forgot the bit about the train, tell them about the train!" Tim nudged his friend.

"Oh yeah, so there was this bit where - "

"I'm not interested in the train." Sherlock stopped him, "Just what happened to Oliver. Did you follow him?"

"Nah, too risky. Fagin sent Bill after 'im though, easier for an adult to infiltrate a courthouse, innit?" Tim explained.

"He won't tell me anything," Sherlock stated with certainty "Lestrade will though. Come along, John, let's leave these lads to their meals, we have a lead to pursue." He leapt to his feet, downing his water as he waited for John, and wrinkling his nose at it.

"One of these days I'd very much love to be left to finish a meal." John grumbled, but followed anyway.

* * *

 _Scotland Yard_

Scotland Yard was bustling when they arrived, which wasn't in itself unusual, there was always people in the lobby, impatiently waiting to bemoan their troubles to the desk sergeant, while other officers came and went about their business. Today though it seemed most of the activity was going on behind the scenes, and they caught a glimpse of a stretcher going by, directed by none other than the man they were looking for.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called over the din, and the harassed looking DI nodded to the desk sergeant to let him through.

"I don't know how you do it, we only just got on the case ourselves, but I'm glad you're here." Lestrade said as they approached.

"Case?" John asked, watching another stretcher by with concerned eyes.

"A triple murder down in Soho, with three different causes of death, just the kind of thing you'd like."

"That's not what we're here for." Sherlock said disinterestedly, "I need access to the cells, I'm looking for a boy who was brought in this morning."

"Can't you just... give this a look over first, you know, while you're here." Lestrade suggested, looking rather desperate "We could really use the help getting it wrapped up before it can cause a panic."

"If you're still stuck on it by the time I've found the boy and returned him to his mother, I'll give it a look over. Triple murders make for interesting crime scenes, but are usually fairly simple." Sherlock shrugged, much to Lestrade's disappointment.

"Right, well... I won't have time to escort you down to the cells, but you're welcome to take a look yourselves, you know the way." He let them go.

They had barely started to walk away when the final stretcher came barrelling by, John pulling Sherlock aside to make room for it. Whether they had jostled it, or it was simply the rough floor, no one particularly noticed, what Sherlock did notice though, was the dark skinned hand that escaped the covering sheet to dangle limply off the side.

"Wait!" He abruptly called, which Lestrade echoed with a "Stop the stretcher!"

The hand would have been enough, but Sherlock stepped closer and pulled the sheet covering the victim's face back anyway, needing confirmation and more information. Beneath the sheet the victim's face was marred by scratches, a gaping wound where his throat should be, a clear cause of death, but he was still clearly recognisable.

"The other two victims, I take it one was a Caucasian male, the other a female of African descent?"

"Yeah, that's right, how did you know?" Lestrade asked, looking baffled, "We figured maybe it was racially motivated, a group of white lads attacking a black gang, and both leaving their dead behind."

"You're wrong. This wasn't to do with the colour of their skin, and while I can't speak to how many attackers yet, other than the fact one was clearly a dog, the deceased are all of the same gang: The Hyenas." Sherlock announced, finishing his inspection for now and stepping back.

"The Hyenas? Weren't they the ones you went to speak to this morning, about Oliver?" John pointed out, respectfully covering the deceased's face again and nodding to the waiting officers to take him away.

"Yes, though they were very much alive at the time." Sherlock explained, before quietly musing "He must have found out..."

" _Who_ must have found out _what_? Sherlock, if you know something about this, you need to tell me." Lestrade demanded.

"I'll know more once I've looked at the other bodies." Sherlock answered, turning and following the direction the stretchers had gone towards the station's mortuary. Lestrade waved John on ahead of him then followed, reassured that he would get his answers, in Sherlock's own time. By the time they caught up with his long strides, he was already uncovering to investigate the other bodies and harassing the elderly coroner as he prepared the first body for examination.

"Time of death?" Sherlock barked at him.

"Hold up, I haven't got that far yet." The coroner protested, looking to Lestrade for help or an explanation.

"Sherlock -" Lestrade tried to rein him in, but the detective just huffed and turned to John.

"John, time of death?"

John looked to Lestrade, who as usual nodded for John to do as Sherlock says, and then stepped up to examine the closest body - the woman.

"Judging by the early stages of rigor mortis around the mouth and jaw, but nowhere else... I'd say about two hours ago, give or take." He offered the opinion.

"A couple of hours after we spoke then, unlikely I laid eyes on the suspect." Sherlock concluded without looking up from his own inspections, "Lestrade, where were the bodies found?"

"They were dragged into an alley off Bateman street, just down from 'The Dog and Duck' public house."

"Thats where I located them this morning. Speak to the barman, see if he heard anything."

"I'll get someone on it." Lestrade agreed "But for now, why don't you start by telling me what _you_ know?"

Having finished his own examination of the bodies, Sherlock straightened up, giving Lestrade his full attention to explain to make sure the other man didn't miss anything.

"Having successfully murdered his brother, Edward Leeford hired the Hyenas to find and kill his fleeing nephew - Oliver Leeford, the boy we are seeking - so that the family inheritance would be his. I traced the Hyenas to the Dog and Duck, where I found out that they had failed in their attempts on Oliver's life, but had assumed he would die on the streets and therefore took payment from Edward for a job they hadn't completed. He must have found out somehow and killed them or had them killed for it. Favouring the former as this is clearly the work of one man and his dog."

"One man?" Lestrade asked in shock, his eyes flickering over the three bodies in wonder that a single person could have taken them all down.

"And his dog." Sherlock corrected, before moving in closer to the bodies again to explain his reasoning, gesturing first to the Caucasian, "Victim one, known as Ed if you're interested, was taken by surprise by their attacker, killed by a single blow to the back of the head by a blunt object... some sort of heavy pipe it appears."

"Yeah, we recovered it from the scene." Lestrade confirmed.

"So that's one down and two to go. The attacker signals his dog, a medium sized and well trained dog, to attack victim two, aka Banzai, while he deals with victim three, Shenzi." Sherlock continues, moving round to look down at her, "He chose the woman, thinking she'd be weakest, but she put up a fight, see traces of blood and tissue under her nails? It took a heavy blow to the face to disorientated her enough to get his hands around her neck and strangle her." He pointed out the bruising patterns. One indentation in particular caught his eye, the shape of a scarab beetle over her clavicle, where his squeezing had pressed the necklace into her skin. "Tell me... was she wearing a necklace when she was recovered?"

"I don't remember any necklace... we haven't removed any of their personal belongings as yet, she's exactly as we found her. Why?" Lestrade asked.

"Because she was wearing one this morning; a golden scarab. A very rare piece, part of the collection of Egyptian treasures stolen from the British Museum, in fact." Sherlock told him, feeling no longer obligated to honour his deal with Shenzi since her demise. "The killer must have taken it after killing her, either generally looting the corpses, or as some kind of trophy. Either way, it should make it easier to tie Edward to the crime when we find the necklace in his possession. It will make a nice 'Exhibit B' alongside the knife he used to kill Richard which I found in his stables."

"You're sure Edward did this personally? He didn't just... hire some other assassin?" John weighed in.

"There's a chance he may have, but I find the presence of a dog very suggestive of his presence. You remember what Irene said, don't you John? ''He always did prefer the company of dogs'" Sherlock reminded him.

"Irene?" Lestrade cut in, with an alarmed look, "You don't mean... Miss Adler? The one who made you a leper, if I remember rightly."

"The very same." John solemnly agreed, "Though it's Mrs Leeford now."

"She's the boy's mother, though I fail to see why this matters." Sherlock sniped.

"You fail to see why it matters? She poisoned you!" Lestrade spluttered, "She's psychotic and if she's involved and bodies are dropping I rather feel she should be higher up the list of potential suspects!"

"You're being absurd, Lestrade." Sherlock scoffed "Irene is many things, but psychotic is not one of them. Everything she does, she does with a purpose. I suppose she could have motive to kill the Hyenas if she believed they had killed her son, but I am sure I would have heard from her were that the case, and she would certainly have found a much tidier way to go about it. This is far too crude for her, besides the fact that the amount of force behind the blow to Ed's head is strongly suggestive that his attacker was male, not female. The only thing you need concern yourself about Irene is helping me return her son to her. Now, cells are this way, are they not?"

"Fine. The sooner we get this wrapped up the better." Lestrade grumbled, following behind as Sherlock led the way to the cells as if he owned the place. He almost ran into him however, as Sherlock suddenly stopped once they were out of hearing distance of the morgue.

"Sherlock, what...?" John paused too in confusion.

"You go ahead John, we'll catch you up." Sherlock waved him off, waiting until he was on his way before turning to Lestrade.

"The coroner... he's close to retirement?"

"It's his last week, how did you...nevermind, why-?"

"Give Molly the job." Sherlock all but demanded.

Whatever Lestrade had been expecting, it wasn't that, though he supposed it should have been. Unfortunately...

"Look, Sherlock, you know I think the world of Molly and respect what she used to do, but it's not my call, and others around her might not be so open minded about -"

"Put in a word with whoever you need too, Mycroft can straighten out the rest." Sherlock assured him. "Your word carries a lot of weight around here, thanks in no small part to the credit I allow you to take for my solving your cases, this is the least you can do to repay me."

Lestrade couldn't argue with that, instead he allowed himself a small smile.

"Starting to miss having her by your side constantly?" He teased, never one to miss an opportunity.

"I need someone I can work with in the morgue, someone dependable." Sherlock straightfaced, trying to prove it a logical decision rather than emotional one. "And Molly is getting restless at home, she keeps trying to... _look after_ me." He added with disdain for effect.

"I'll see what I can do." Lestrade agreed, still smirking in an annoyingly knowing way.

* * *

 _AN: So I know what you're thinking: how can the hyenas be dead, the hyenas don't die! In my last story I tried to be as true to the fairytale as I was to Sherlock, and that worked for it. But this time I'm shaking it up a bit, so don't think you know precisely what's gonna happen just because you know the originals: characters that don't die still can, and characters that do die can be saved._

 _Wow, just had a better look at the story stats, 36 followers now! I'm honoured to have each and every one of you along. And we're in a community too, yay! Thanks to whoever put us in there. And of course to my commenters: Elbafo, Grace the guest, LRRH17 and joycelyn. , thank you all so very much, your kind words (and great guesses, you guys are on the ball) mean the world to me._

 _See you all Wednesday, don't do anything Sherlock wouldn't do in the meantime ;)_


	9. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

**Chapter 9 - What Could Possibly Go Wrong?**

May 16th 1870 - Scotland Yard

"What do you mean he's not here?" Sherlock grouchily demanded of John, looking about the cells himself at the motley group of lowlifes and criminals gathered within and, though he would never admit it, finding that John was right; the boy they were looking for wasn't there.

"You're sure he was brought here?" Lestrade asked the obvious question.

"Where else? The boys said he was arrested and taken to the courthouse, and most judges would scarcely have looked at a boy who has clearly been living on the streets for any amount of time before sending him for a night in the lock-up." Sherlock insisted.

"Perhaps he got a lenient judge?" Lestrade suggested, "Do you have a picture or anything, I was at the courthouse myself for a bit this afternoon, I might have seen him go through."

With the attitude of a man clearly not expecting much to come of it, Sherlock drew out the now very wrinkled photo and passed it to Lestrade.

"You should have shown me this sooner, mate." Lestrade chuckled looking at it, taking Sherlock by surprise.

"You've seen him?" John asked before Sherlock could demand to know it.

"Yeah, he was at the courthouse today. Some older bloke was accusing him of stealing his wallet, but before the trial properly begun, another witness from the scene - the owner of the shop the man was perusing - came in and said he saw two other boys steal the man's wallet and that this boy - Oliver you called him? - was just an innocent bystander. So the trial was called off." Lestrade explained.

"So he was let go and now no one knows where he's gone I suppose?" Sherlock huffed, "I suppose he might have made his way back to Fagin's, we can-"

"Oh no, we know where he went." Lestrade cut Sherlock off.

"Excuse me?"

"We know where he went." Lestrade repeated "The old man took him home, the one who was accusing him. It was a funny thing, when he came in he was shaking like a leaf and couldn't even get his name out when asked, we all thought it was nerves as having been caught, you know? But then after it was over and they were letting him out of the dock he just collapsed, seems it wasn't nerves at all, he was truly sick. The old man felt so bad, and there was no one else there to claim the lad, he hadn't told them where he was from, so the old man said he'd take him home and care for him himself."

"His name and address will be on record at the courthouse then?" Sherlock realised, the light of excitement sparking in his eyes. "What are we waiting for then? Come along, John!"

Yet again John was forced to quicken his strides to keep up with Sherlock, and caught him by the sleeve to slow him down.

"Hold up there, Sherlock. It's getting a bit late, isn't it? The courthouse will be closed by now."

"Yes, but that's never stopped me before, has it?" Sherlock smirked, though John had already noticed him blinking more and more since they got here and on seeing one more slow blink he knew they'd never make it to the courthouse. Sure enough as his friend turned to walk away he started listing to the left slightly, and John had to catch his arm again as he practically stumbled against the wall.

"What... what's happening to me?" Sherlock muttered, his eyes sliding shut and then opening wide as he tried to fight whatever was trying to shut him down.

"Looks like someone slipped a soporific in your dinner earlier. And by 'someone' I mean me, and 'dinner', I mean water." John confessed unrepentantly.

"You drugged me? You? Mister... doctor who always complains about..." Sherlock trailed off, shaking his head hard in an attempt to clear it enough to form a witty insult.

"Your previous use? Yes well, what I gave you isn't particularly addictive. I'll give it to you though, your previous use has built up quite a resistance in you; that wasn't a small dose, I thought you'd be out in ten in the cab over here, but it's been nearly 45 minutes." John added in wonder.

"Choral Hydrate." Sherlock deduced despite the fog in his brain and the fact he was losing the fight with his eyes.

"That's right. Nicked it from your chemistry set... or rather Molly did. It was her idea you know, she said you didn't come to sleep last night and wanted me to make sure you did tonight. Come on, put your arm over my shoulder and let's get you to a cab while you can still just about walk, I don't fancy carrying you" John said, helping the taller man get his feet under him.

"S'your own fault." Sherlock murmured, though he obligingly put one foot in front of the other. "The boy... we're this close!" He held up a thumb and finger in demonstration.

"Yes well, I didn't realise that when I administered it, did I? But he's sick and in care, so I doubt he'll go anywhere before the morning." John grunted under Sherlock's increasing weight. It said a lot about the two men's reputations at the yard that none of the policemen they passed seemed to think anything of John half carrying his friend out the building. Thankfully a cab had just deposited another customer outside the station, and so John loaded Sherlock into it before climbing in himself. Sherlock was fast asleep by the time they pulled away.

* * *

May 17th 1870 - Baker Street

As Sherlock arose from the depths of his drug-induced slumber, he automatically started cataloging his environment. A comfortably supportive mattress, high quality sheets and the warmth of a body close to but not touching his own told him he was in his own bed in Baker Street, with Molly beside him. Additional information, her breathing pattern suggested she was still deep asleep herself. Upon opening his eyes he automatically looked left to the wall opposite the window - the angle at which the sunlight hit it was as easy to read as a clock to him, but there was no light reaching it yet. Too early for him to go calling on the old man with the boy and expect a favourable reception he decided - despite what John might think, he did understand these things - in relation to how they would affect his cases at least. And so he stayed in bed, propping himself up a little with his pillow and bringing his fingers up to his lips in thought, as he sank into his mind palace to re-examine the case so far, and sort the details for saving or deletion once the case was over. The passage of time usually escaped him in his mind palace, but he didn't fail to notice the change in Molly's breathing as she stirred some time later, and reemerged just as she rolled over to look at him.

"Are you mad at me?" She asked tentatively, her teeth catching her bottom lip as she awaited his answer.

"Mad? No. Impressed?" He rose an eyebrow down at her, and a warm and genuine smile tugged at his lips. When she smiled back he held out an arm to her, and she snuggled up to his side, laying her head on his chest. "I'm a bad influence on you, you know."

"They say I'm a good influence on you though." Molly returned, to which he murmured assent. "John says you're nearly there in the case?"

"Nothing left to it really." Sherlock confirmed, a little disappointment in his voice that it was over, "We should be able to retrieve him this morning and return him to his mother and be back before lunch."

"I'll have something ready for you when you get back then." Molly volunteered dutifully.

"Or you could come with? The boy is sick I hear, you're good with sick people." Sherlock suggested enthusiastically.

"You have John for that."

"You're just as capable as John." Sherlock insisted.

"But will the old man believe that? I think he'd probably be more comfortable handing the boy over to a real doctor." Molly suggested pragmatically, only a hint of bitterness in her voice, though Sherlock knew it was the tip of the iceberg. "Besides, if it's not so simple you'll need John at your back, not me." She added.

"What could possibly go wrong?" Sherlock dismissed the idea, glancing again at the wall and seeing the well defined line telling him it was time to get going. His conscience pinged a little as he extracted himself from Molly's arms, reminding him that if she was feeling down about not being considered a proper doctor because of her gender, he should stay and comfort her somehow. Comfort never really was his area though, and if the wheels he had set in motion came to fruition, her problems would be solved.

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was standing on the Watson's doorstep, practically buzzing with impatience.

"Come on in and wait, Sherlock, John is just finding his shoes." Mary answered the door, stepping aside for him to enter.

"Shouldn't be too difficult, how hard is it to remember where one left their shoes?" Sherlock commented, but stepped in anyway.

"You'd be surprised." Mary quipped back. "Did you sleep well?" She added with a mischievous smirk, that made Sherlock narrow his eyes.

"It was your idea. I should have known."

"You have an astonishing blind spot for the women in your life, Sherlock. But then I wasn't expecting Molly to actually go through with it either, I was mostly joking when I said it."

The 'mostly' did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, and he was about to call her out on it, but at that moment they were interrupted by Charlotte coming down the stairs and spotting Sherlock. The young woman took one look at him and blushed deeply, attempting to neaten her hair with one hand, the other slipping behind her back to conceal something in the folds of her skirt.

"Sherlock! Hi! Father didn't say you were coming by today." She said, her voice a bit peaking.

"Yes, well he's not stopping, dear, we're going out." John said, coming down the stairs behind her, and startling her slightly. John didn't seem to notice this though, too focussed on retrieving his hat from the stand behind Sherlock and kissing his wife on the cheek. Sherlock said nothing either, without enough data to draw a solid conclusion about whatever Charlotte was hiding. Instead he grabbed John's coat, impatiently helping him into it.

"Yes, and we're already running late, the courthouse opened five minutes ago. Come on." He insisted.

"Have fun!" Mary bid them goodbye as Sherlock dragged her husband out the door. Closing it after them, she smiled at their antics, before turning to her daughter.

"Okay you, out with it, what's that you're hiding?"

* * *

Thornhill square, London

The day was a warm one, with clear blue skies and the sun's warm beams filtering down past the taller buildings and trees. When the young pickpockets had said the old man was rich, they hadn't been mistaken, as the address given at the courthouse lead to one of the cities nicer areas. Grand, pristine white houses stood in a crescent around a neatly mowed green, polished door knockers gleaming in the sunlight. The detective and his companion knocked on the door of the property they sought, and soon enough the elderly housekeeper came to the door, a hopeful expression on her well-rounded face.

"Oliver?" She asked hopefully, before setting eyes on them, at which she quickly backtracked, "Oh, sorry gentlemen, I was expecting someone else. How can I help you?"

"Actually I believe we are seeking the same person, though we were led to believe he was residing here?" Sherlock answered, watching the woman speculatively. Her hands were already wringing from anxiety, but they picked up the pace at his words.

"Oh dear, oh dear me. You'd best come speak to the Master. Follow me."

She stepped aside, holding the door open for them to enter, before leading the way through to the parlour, where the Master of the house was sitting in his armchair, staring unseeingly at an open newspaper in his hands, and frowning at whatever was troubling his mind.

"Mr Brownlow?" The housekeeper got his attention, "Mr Brownlow, sir, these men are here about Oliver."

Immediately Mr Brownlow got to his feet, extending his hand to shake first Sherlock then John's hands, though the troubled expression didn't leave his face.

"Good day gentlemen. Are you... from the courthouse?"

"We're associates of Scotland Yard." John quickly answered, before Sherlock could out and out deny it, sensing that the man would be more comfortable discussing the boy with an authority figure. Sherlock seemed to agree, as he followed John's lead.

"Your case was mentioned to us by a colleague, and we believe the boy may be a missing heir we've been looking for."

"Do you have a picture?" Mr Brownlow enquired.

"Of course." Sherlock produced the picture from inside his jacket, and Mr Brownlow took one look at it before sighing in sorrow.

"Yes, that's him, the boy I took in. However I am sorry to tell you gentlemen that he is no longer with me. He disappeared this morning when Mrs Bedwin here took him out into the park. We're not sure if he ran away or was taken, it all happened so quickly."

"The park you say? We were given to understand he was rather unwell?" John frowned.

"A touch of fever from exposure, the poor lad had been sleeping rough a few nights as best as I could gather, not a situation he was accustomed too, and he didn't have the constitution for it." Mr Brownlow explained. "A night in a warm bed perked him up a fair bit, and since it was such a warm morning I figured a little bit of fresh air and sun could do him some good. I never thought-"

"Yes yes, there's a lot of that going around." Sherlock cut off his reflection, glaring at John, "Let's go, John, we've learned all we can here." And with that the detective swept out of the room, leaving John as always to make apologies for his rudeness.

"Sorry, he's just impatient to find the boy. Speaking as a doctor, you did the best for him you could. Rest assured, I very much doubt he left of his own accord, we're not the only ones searching for him, there's a good chance he was snatched up. But we'll find him."

"Thank you. You will let me know when he's found won't you? I understand he must go back to his proper family, but I would very much like to know he's safe." Mr Brownlow replied earnestly.

"Will do." John promised, before seeing himself out, to where Sherlock was impatiently waiting for him on the pavement outside, puffing angrily on his lit pipe.

"You 'doubt he'll go anywhere before morning'?" Sherlock snarled, reminding him of his own words the night before, before striding away.

* * *

Baker Street

"Now I don't know much about Sherlock's cases except what goes on inside these apartments, but I know you, dear, and I know that look on your face, and I think you should have gone with him. So what if you don't think you can contribute much, at least it'd be a bit of fun." Mrs Hudson admonished in response to what Molly had told her about Sherlock's offer that morning, as she poured them both tea at he kitchen table.

"It would be selfish, I'd probably just slow him down. I don't want to be any more of a ball and chain to him than I already am. Even though he wasn't angry, I still feel terribly guilty for drugging him to sleep, you know." Molly glumly replied, stirring in her milk in slow pensive circles.

"It was for his own good. He'd do worse for less, you know. There was this one time -"

A knock at the front door, short and sharp, stopped Mrs Hudson's story before it started. She started getting to her feet, but Molly was quicker.

"I'll get it." She insisted, slipping around the table and down the stairs to open the front door. A young woman in a red dress stood on the step, a hood drawn up to cover her hair, as she peered up and down the street, as though in fear of being seen.

"Is this the home of Mr 'olmes?" She asked in an urgent voice.

"It is, but he's not home right now. You can come in and wait if you like." Molly offered, stepping aside.

"I've no time to wait!" The woman cried, rushing in anyway, "I shouldn't even be here! You'll pass a message on to him, won't ya? If I tells you?"

"Of course. Come upstairs and tell me anything. We've just poured the tea." Molly ushered her, closing the front door in haste behind her "Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"It's Nancy... just Nancy."

* * *

 _AN: *cringes at own writing and awaits criticism* Not one of my finest moments this chapter, I know it's a little out of character for his friends to go so far to get him to rest on the job, but I needed to slow him down a little for the Oliver storyline to play out. So sorry about that. I did put a cheeky reference to another BC film in there though to make up for it, anyone spot it?_

 _The usual thanks to Elbafo, jocelyn. , Sherlolly-Shules-Hamiltrash and LRRH17 for their reviews. To LRRH17 (since you have pm's turned off) - I don't think it's at all creepy if you review every chapter, I love the feedback. And you are very on point with your insights too ;) Though the scarab thing was unintentional, but I like your thinking._


	10. A Fiercely Determined Woman

**Chapter 10 - A Fiercely Determined Woman**

 _May 17th 1870 - Baker Street_

"For goodness' sake John, listening to you think is almost painful. Speak your mind why don't you?" Sherlock blurted as the cab trundled homewards, so far a silent - but not silent enough - journey.

"It's nothing, really. Just struck me as odd how invested in the boy Mr Brownlow seemed to be." John confessed, "I wouldn't have thought a Gentlemen such as he would just take in any waif from the streets, much less be so concerned about their disappearance after less than 24 hours acquaintance."

"There's no mystery in it at all, the reasons for his interest in the boy are quite obvious." Sherlock dismissed.

"Not to me they're not." John corrected "but I'm sure you'll explain it to me."

"The picture on the wall behind Mr Brownlow's armchair? The portrait?" Sherlock prompted, as though he expected the reminder to be enough. John simply shrugged though, having taken no note of any picture, and so Sherlock long-sufferingly explained, even as the cab pulled around onto Baker Street, "Another missing heir, or heiress I should say. The portrait was a young woman, presumably Mr Brownlow's daughter, who apparently went missing some time ago. Her absence from his life and how he grieves it were quite clear in the positioning of the picture and the chair - the picture was in a prominent position in the room, where he could see it if he wished, but behind his preferred seat, so not constantly in his vision, ergo a painful reminder. That she is simply missing and not dead was evident in the way he looked at the picture of Oliver, and the favourable way he treated him as you already pointed out. He bears a notable resemblance to the girl in the picture, enough to give Mr Brownlow hope that his daughter lives on, and bore him a grandson who had managed to find his way home."

The cab had pulled up outside 221b while Sherlock spoke, and John was forced to rush to pay the cabbie and catch up with Sherlock before voicing his thoughts on the matter.

"You don't think Irene could possibly be the daughter in the picture, do you?" He speculated, to which Sherlock shook his head.

"While they do also share several similar features, there were also notable differences which rule the possibility out." Sherlock explained, sweeping off his hat and coat as he entered, and throwing them in the rough direction of the coat hooks.

"She might -"

"Shh!" Sherlock held up a finger to signal silence, listening for a second, before his face split into a grin. "We have a visitor."

 _A few minutes earlier - Baker Street_

Nancy was seated on _the_ chair in the middle of the room, a cup of tea in her slightly trembling hands as she faced Molly and Mrs Hudson, sitting in the armchairs by the fireplace. It occurred to Molly that they must be a pale imitation of Sherlock and John questioning a client, though by now Sherlock would already have deduced everything there was to know from her. Molly didn't have his unique skill, but she did have a very useful one of her own; patience. She waited as the woman gathered herself together, and finally spoke.

"The thing you have to understand..." Nancy began, "is I loves my man very much. He's been good to me... but 'e ain't always a good man, if you gets my meanin'. Times is hard and we makes the best we can of it, but sometimes... well sometimes, as a friend of mine says, 'you've got to pick a pocket or two' just to get by. And my man, he never hesitated to do what he gotta. And as long as he needs me, I'll never stop lovin' him, no matter what he does."

"I know a little of how that feels." Molly sympathised.

"How?" Nancy scoffed "Your fella's a lawman ain't he? He solves crimes, he don't commit them."

"You'd be surprised." Molly said softly, not taking offence at Nancy's tone and seeking to establish common ground. "He's been known to bend and even break the law when it suits him, to get the results he wants."

"It's true, some of the stuff he gets up to... it'll be a wonder if he doesn't get himself a arrested one of these days." Mrs Hudson contributed.

Nancy nodded, biting her lip as she chose her next words.

"But...there's a point, ain't there? A point when they can go to far, and if you loves 'em... well you can't jus' let them. You gotta try and stop them, to save them from themselves. Even if they'll hate you for it. You have to, because you love them." Her voice got smaller as she went on, as though she was no longer speaking to Molly, but convincing herself.

"There is." Molly agreed, thinking back to her actions last night. She had a feeling though, what Nancy was speaking about was far worse than skipping a few nights sleep. "And that's why you're here? To try and stop him going too far?"

The tears that had been glistening in Nancy's eyes tumbled down her cheek, and she took a big breath that was almost a sob.

"Oh Mrs Holmes, 'e already has!" She wailed, "And so 'elp me, I won't leave him, but I can't let him do it again."

"Do... what, again?" Molly asked slowly, with an ice cold feeling that she already knew.

"Please don't ask me. Please don't make me tell on 'im, not even to you." Nancy begged tearfully, in a valiant attempt to regain control.

"Okay... well... why don't you just tell me what you can? Tell me what you came to tell my husband."

Nancy took a big breath to compose herself.

"I work at the Dog and Duck as a waitress. Today he came in, your husband, and was talking to three of our regulars. I wasn't paying much attention, not until I saw the picture of the boy, Oliver. I recognised him from Fagin's when I dropped by the other night to pick up... nevermind." She cut herself off, clearly not wanting to give away anything incriminating about her man's dealings with Fagin, and Molly let it slide. She hadn't been sure if Nancy had anything to do with Irene's case up until now, and now she did it was all the more important not to spook her. Thankfully, Nancy picked her story back up after only a short pause.

"So after that I started listening in a little. I 'eard them say they were sent to kill Oliver but weren't no more, and I even heard them say the name of the man who hired them after Mr Holmes left. And I heard Mr Holmes say he was trying to help the boy's mother find him." She hesitated, fiddling with her skirt, "I don't know why Oliver ran away, don't much need to know. All I know is the streets ain't no place if you got somewhere else to go. I just wanted to help him, tha's all. I should have come here sooner."

"What did you do instead?" Molly asked as tactfully as possible, sensing more to the story.

"Well I told B- My man o' course. 'E came in for lunch a little after Mr Holmes left, and 'e told me about the trouble Oliver had got himself into, being taken to the courthouse and then home with that old fella. So I told him what I'd heard, thinking maybe we could help get Oliver back to his mama. But 'e... he had other ideas. He was already worried about Oliver peachin' on us, y'see. So when 'e got it in his head that 'e could get paid for..." Nancy bit her lip, not wanting to voice the rest of that sentence, though she didn't need to. Molly gave her an encouraging nod and she continued. "I tried to talk him out of it, but 'e wouldn't listen. He went away, went to go see Mr Leeford himself, and then when he came back, him and his dog, Bullseye they were... they were all roughed up, and 'e told me we had to go quick. So we went to Fagin's and they made plans, plans to get Oliver back, and I said I wanted no part of it. But they wouldn't listen, they wouldn't... they made me do it! I'm sorry but they made me!"

"Made you do what?" Molly asked slowly, her eyes wide with alarm, thinking they had walked into a trap letting Nancy in. Her eyes flicked to Mrs Hudson, who gave a tiny nod, her nimble old fingers sliding down the side of the armchair cushion ready to retrieve the handgun underneath. It was unnecessary however.

"Help steal the boy back!" Nancy answered, seemingly unaware of the tension in her hostesses, consumed by her own guilt "First thing this morning, while he was out for a stroll in the park. Dodger distracted the Gov'ness while I led Oliver away. He trusted me, an' there I was betraying him. I never felt so low."

Molly felt pretty low as well, realising that thanks to her insistence on bringing Sherlock home last night she had caused him to miss his opportunity to find Oliver, and now he would be coming home empty handed from his morning's mission all because of her. She fretted over Sherlock's reaction, though she knew his anger to come in the form of a swift outburst that would be over long before he got home to her, it was the brooding that followed and what went on inside that busy brain of his that worried her. Would he start to resent her presence in his life, slowing him down like a ball and chain? And if he did, what had she to offer to make up for her hindrance? Her medical knowledge and experience were far outweighed by John's, and she was sure the romantic parts of their relationship Sherlock merely tolerated rather than enjoyed.

"So... you know where he is now?" She asked, in hope that she could start to make things right before facing Sherlock on his return.

Nancy nodded.

"Bi- my man, he's keeping him close for the day. 'E says he could use Oliver's help with a job, but really he's just keeping an eye on him until tonight, when Mr Leeford is comin' down to see the job done. He -" she cut herself off with a gasp as there was a sound from downstairs, and turned in her chair to stare at the door like a deer in the headlights.

"It's okay." Molly assured her, listening to the low hum of her husband's voice at the bottom of the stairs. "It's just Sherlock."

"Oh! They'll want tea, I expect." Mrs Hudson said, jumping up out of John's chair.

Nancy turned to look back at Molly, but on the way past her eyes caught the time on the clock and she did a double take at it, before jumping out of her seat.

"Oh my, is that the time? I've stayed too long already, I have to go!"

"Please wait!" Molly cried, jumping to her feet as well as she felt her chance at redemption slipping away from her.

"I'm sorry." Nancy earnestly replied, turning for the door. Her way out was blocked however, by Sherlock's arrival in the doorway, with John at his heels. He came to a halt just inside the room, his eyes sweeping over her for information.

"I recognise you." He announced, "You came in to Fagin's with Bill Sykes. And now I recall, you were at the Dog and Duck too. You know something about Oliver."

"Nancy was just telling me-" Molly started,

"And I don't have time to tell it again!" Nancy cut her off impatiently, before looking up at Sherlock with imploring eyes., "Listen, if you wants my help getting Oliver back, then be at the Waterloo bridge tonight, at midnight. If I can sneak 'im away I will, but I makes no promises." And with that she pressed forward, as though to push past the men if necessary, but they stepped aside for her, allowing her to hurry away down the stairs and out the door. Sherlock followed her with his eyes until she had disappeared from view, before turning to Molly, looking rather pleased.

"So I assume you know our morning was a bust. What did I miss here?"

Sherlock and John took their seats as Molly paced the room, trying to recollect every detail of her conversation with Nancy and repeat it verbatim as much as possible, knowing how such things could be important to Sherlock. He stopped her only a few times to ask questions and clarify details, then sat back in his chair with his fingers to his lips.

"It would seem I was wrong in my assumption Edward killed the Hyenas personally, he had Bill Sykes do it. It's a good thing Lestrade is holding back on arresting him until I recovered Oliver, or it could have been potentially embarrassing for Scotland Yard." He smirked, almost as though he enjoyed the idea.

"Yes, well lets just hope Nancy can get Oliver out of his clutches before Bill can strike again. We need a backup plan, in case something keeps her from it. Perhaps one of your street boys could infiltrate Fagin's and-"

"You need some faith, Doctor." Sherlock waved him off, "She's a fiercely determined woman, and a determined woman can be surprisingly wily." He met Molly's eyes with a sly grin, "And they often have the advantage of being underestimated by their men. If she says she'll be at the bridge at midnight with Oliver, that's where they'll be."

"Right then." John nodded, looking about. "I guess there's nothing to be done but wait until tonight then. I'll just be off."

"Very well, meet me at The Mulberry Bush pub around the corner from the bridge shortly before. Oh and if you could stop by Scotland Yard on your way home and tell George to meet us there too." Sherlock instructed.

"Greg." John habitually corrected, though he knew it wouldn't take. "And where are you off to?" He added, as Sherlock got out of his chair and joined him on his path to the door.

"I have my own investigations to attend to."

"Will you be back for dinner?" Molly called after him, but got no response. She sighed, and shared a commiserating look with Mrs Hudson, who had just came through from the kitchen, laden with a fresh pot of tea for the men.

"There they go again. Tea?"

* * *

AN: We're getting close to the end guys, only three more chapters to go. Thank you all for following this story with me :) And thanks again to my regular reviewers, Joycelyn. , LRRH17, SherlollyShulesHamiltrash and Elbafo. To LRRH17, it looks like you were right about Bill and his dog, I wonder what else oh might be right about ;)

Some of you may be interested to know I have just written another little completely unrelated Sherlock one shot, that should be up at some point today or tomorrow, so keep an eye out for it ;)


	11. Life and Death Decisions

**Chapter 11 - Life and Death Decisions**

 _May 17th 1870 - The Mulberry Bush, Southbank, London_

As surreptitious places to meet went, The Mulberry Bush was clearly a popular one. Sherlock counted two adulterous couples and one drug deal going on as he walked into the bar, something that had clearly gone unnoticed by Detective Inspector Lestrade, who appeared to be indulging in a quick half-pint with John while the two waited for him. As he joined them at the bar he felt as much as saw the shift in his friends, from pleasure to business, as glasses were set down and pushed away unfinished.

"There you are, we were starting to think you weren't going to appear. And how went your investigations?" John greeted him.

"Quite fruitful, as it turns out." Sherlock answered cryptically, shaking his head at the approaching barman, who turned back to his other patrons.

"Well, aren't you going to tell us about them?"

"All in due time. For now there are more important matters. Come along, midnight approaches, and it would be rude to keep a lady waiting." He turned and walked away without another word, confident that his companions would follow.

The night was a clear one, with an almost full moon contributing its light to that of the street lamps, guiding their path towards the Waterloo bridge. Just as well, as a light fog rolled off the river, barely leeching into the streets beside it, but obscuring the other side like a curtain. There seemed to be no one else about, but still all three men were hyper-vigilant as they approached the bridge in silence. Just before they came up onto the bridge, Sherlock steered them aside, into the shadows where the bridge met the bank.

"Why are we stopping here, shouldn't we be in the middle of the bridge where she can see us?" John whispered.

"No, because anyone would be able to see us." Sherlock replied condescendingly, his voice only slightly lowered in his surety no one was around. "Nancy is taking a huge risk going against Bill, she won't want to be seen, she'll much prefer we stick to the shadows. Assuming she's bringing Oliver straight from Fagin's, she'll approach from this side of the river, we'll see her coming."

"Right then." John assented, though he kept one eye on the bridge as well as the roads leading up to it.

Despite their vigilance, all three were startled as a cry split the night from the other side of the bridge, the sound carrying perfectly across the water as though from right behind them.

"Is that-?"

"It's Nancy!" Sherlock replied urgently, taking off at a run, swiftly followed by his friends, "She must have come from the Dog and Duck."

"Never mind why she's the wrong side of the bridge, why is she screaming?" Lestrade asked breathlessly, as he tried to keep up. The last echoes of Nancy's scream had since died, and the fog blocked their view until they got close. They heard the thuds of fists landing and laboured breathing before they saw them; Nancy on the ground, hands raised barely able to defend herself as Bill laid into her with his fists, and Oliver stood by terrified, being guarded by Bill's dog.

"Leave her alone!" "Let her go!" Sherlock and John both shouted at once as they approached, as John backed up his words by drawing his gun in threat. Bill threw one final punch, causing Nancy to go limp, before turning and grabbing Oliver by the collar to flee.

"John!" Sherlock needlessly but urgently called for his friends aid as he skidded to a halt besides Nancy, his senses overwhelmed by the sight and smell of the blood covering her, and not sure where to start helping her. John had no such problems, instantly reaching for her neck to take a pulse.

"She's alive, just. I'll take care of her, you go, Sherlock. And you Greg, you both need to go get Oliver."

Sherlock didn't need telling twice, taking off down the embankment after Bill. They may have lost sight of Bill and Oliver before the chase begun, but that didn't stop Sherlock weaving confidently through the streets and back across the river.

"You know where he's going?" Lestrade panted, barely able to keep up.

"Back to Fagin's of course."

"You sure this time? 'Cos that's where you thought Nancy was coming from and you were wrong. Maybe we should split up?" Lestrade suggested.

"Okay, I was wrong that time, but I'm not now." Sherlock asserted.

"But how do you know?" Lestrade insisted, grabbing Sherlock by the sleeve and bringing him to a stop.

"Because of the dog! Listen to it!" Sherlock snapped, before muttering, "We don't have time for this!"

"I don't hear a -" Lestrade was cut off by a sorrowful howl, and turned back to see where it was coming from. "- That dog? That sounded like it was coming from Tower bridge!"

"Yes, if you used your eyes you'd have seen him as we passed, a Bull terrier with a distinctive patch on its eye, just like the one Bill had with him. It was barking as they ran and I was following the sounds until it stopped. Bill must have realised and left it behind. But that doesn't matter now, because if he was coming this way there's only one place he would be heading: Fagin's. Now let's go!"

"I still don't know who or where this 'Fagin' is, you know." Lestrade muttered, but kept the pace, jogging after Sherlock through the murky streets parallel to the river.

When they turned into a shadowy alley off the main road, Sherlock started to slow, his eyes fixed near the top of the building ahead, and Lestrade followed his gaze. Sure enough, there was Bill Sykes up on a terraced landing with his back to them, one arm restraining the boy, the other making motions they couldn't see.

"What are we waiting for?" Lestrade hissed, as Sherlock slowed to a complete stop. He followed the terrace with his eyes and spied the staircase up, making for it without waiting for an explanation from Sherlock.

"No, wait!" Sherlock cried, trying to grab him, but not going any further than the bottom of the stairs. Lestrade soon discovered why, as he was no more than a dozen steps up when there was a loud crack, and the staircase started to collapse from under him. He stumbled back as fast as he could, losing his balance on the last few steps as the structure tilted violently. Thankfully a familiar pair of arms caught him, pulling him clear as the mass of beams and planks crumpled to the ground.

"As I suspected, he was sabotaging the supports." Sherlock observed, letting go of his friend and looking back up at the balcony where Bill had been standing. It still stood, even after being detached from the staircase, but was now empty, Bill and his captive having escaped through the door into Fagin's loft. "Didn't take much, I dare say, it was barely stable as it was. If it wasn't for the narrow alley, a strong wind would have blown it over years back."

"So that's it then? He's got away?" Lestrade huffed hopelessly, staring at the mass of broken beams and the door the once lead to.

"Not necessarily." Sherlock answered, heading into the abandoned building below, while calling back over his shoulder, "Best you wait here, keep your eyes on the roofs, in case he tries to escape that way."

The warehouse was as it had been last he came here; reeking of mildew, with thick layers of dust and cobwebs overlaying old rusted machinery and equipment carelessly abandoned. He picked his way through in the weak light of street lamps outside permeating the foggy windows, until he felt the weak draught coming from behind a musty curtain, behind which a doorless frame lead to a secret stairwell.

Sherlock had only climbed the first flight, when he heard a commotion from the floor above; the sounds of a trapdoor, multiple footsteps, and young boys hushing one another. He pressed himself back into a shadowy corner and watched and waited as the footsteps descended and first Fagin, then his gang of young misfits streamed down the staircase he had just come up. There was no sign of Bill and Oliver among them, but Tim and Peter were last to descend, and Sherlock was willing to bet they'd have useful information for him. Quickly and quietly, he darted forward, wrapping his arms around the boys with his palms covering their mouths so they couldn't call out and give him away.

"It's only me." He whispered, watching the last retreating backs of the other lads, "I'm going to let go now, keep quiet and I believe we can help one another."

"Mr Holmes!" Tim attempted to whisper, though the volume of it made Sherlock cringe. "Sorry. But what are you doing here?" Tim tried again, this time a little quieter.

"Searching for Oliver, obviously. I have reason to believe he's upstairs, am I right?"

"Yeah, with Bill." Peter confirmed, his whisper not much better than his friend's "They'll be down in a second, Bill said he was just gonna tidy away anything in... in..."

"Incriminating." Sherlock supplied

"Yeah that's the one. He said the coppers were on their way up the front, and we'd be safe if we went this way, and he'll join us in a minute."

"He's lying to you." Sherlock didn't hesitate to inform them. "No-one is going up the front way, he made sure of that when he destroyed the stairwell. There is however a policeman, an inspector no less, waiting at the bottom. I'm sure he'll have plenty of questions when you lot come streaming out. Sykes's using you as a distraction for his own getaway plan. Is there another way out of the attic?"

Peter shrugged and looked over at Tim, who thought carefully for a second.

"Well, there is a beam from the back window to the next rooftop, but anyone'd have to be mad to go out that way."

"Yes, well I'm in little doubt as to the state of Syke's mental health. If you'll excuse me-" Sherlock turned his attention back to the attic above, dashing away up the next staircase.

"Hey, wait! What about us? What're we suppose to do now if there's a copper waitin' for us downstairs?" Tim shouted up after him. He watched as Sherlock's head popped over the balcony from above to answer him.

"I suggest waiting here for an hour or so, then you can slip away as you please. Oh and if you ever want any more honest work... well, slightly more honest work-" With a flick of his wrist Sherlock was gone, a lone calling card fluttering down the empty stairwell to land at the young boy's feet. Looking at one another, they picked it up, reading the simple inscription: _Sherlock Holmes. 221b Baker Street._

Upstairs, Sherlock surveyed the view from the back window for the route Bill would have taken out. The beam crossing to the corner of the next roof was barely a foot wide and slick from the mist, and what lay beyond was not much better. He had to agree that it would take someone extremely foolhardy and reckless to attempt it, and with a working knowledge of London's rooftops to get very far. He suspected Bill Sykes to be both of those things.

He _knew_ he himself was.

Still, his first step out the window was tentative, putting his weight onto the beam in increments, in case Bill had thought to sabotage it as well. Once both feet were on the beam and he was certain it would take his weight, he hastened along it, surefooted and stealthy. The roof opposite was slanted, with a few loose tiles that could be perilous to someone with less experience, but he flew along it like a duck on water. Once over the crest of the roof, Sherlock could make out two shadowy figures in the fog little more than a few buildings over. Clearly all the advantage Bill had had in his head start had been lost in trying to urge the young frightened boy along with him. Even from here, Sherlock could hear him snapping at Oliver to move faster, urging him up the fire escape of an even taller building ahead.

A fairly substantial gap between buildings was Sherlock's next obstacle, though he didn't fear the leap. He could see where Bill had flung Oliver across here, the disturbed tiles and skid marks where Oliver had almost slid off and scrabbled for purchase. He leapt a little to the left of this, but still managed to run afoul of a loose tile, which flew out from beneath him, off the edge and down the sheer drop below. Sherlock came down hard on one knee on the rooftop, his hands instinctively finding a hold to stop him falling any further. When he got up though, he saw that his blunder had alerted Bill to his pursuit, making him even more reckless as he pushed Oliver forward and climbed after him.

Sherlock got back to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain from his knee, which would no doubt bruise spectacularly, and continued to give chase. Over two more rooftops, up the ladders and across he ran, until he ground to a halt a hundred yards from his quarry, on the balcony running the length of a riverside warehouse. His caution was warranted, as he beheld Bill passing Oliver up onto a beam sticking out the side of the building; the boom for a winch used to lift heavy cargo from boats below. The rope was missing from the winch, but Bill passed one up to Oliver, his plan to use it to swing across the unleapable gap to the next building clear.

"You tie it good and tight boy!" He barked at the shaking lad, as he made a loop with his end and tightened it around his torso under one arm.

"I wouldn't wear it that way if I were you." Sherlock called out to him, slowly and carefully edging forward, so as not to spook Bill any more than he already was. "Under both arms would be more stable if you're in a hurry."

"Like I'd listen to you, you turncoat! Nah, you just wants me all neatly tied up so I can't get out the other side, and you can hand me over to your _handlers_ at Scotland Yard. How much d'they pay you to round up those of us you use to call friends, Judas? Is it worth it?" Bill lobbed accusations at him, edging his feet back as far as he dared and keeping one eye on Oliver tying the rope, ready to jump as soon as it was ready.

"Don't flatter yourself, we weren't friends, you were a tool, like many others at my disposal." Sherlock callously reminded him, though he stopped moving forward, not wanting to drive Bill over the edge. "But still, I would expect you to know better than to think that I do anything for the money. I do it for the thrill of the chase, and right now my only quarry is Oliver. It's clear you intended to leave him behind at this juncture, so it makes no difference to me whether you make a clean getaway or hang yourself at this point. Though if you do get away and Nancy dies from the injuries you inflicted upon her, I imagine I'll be tracking you down again in the future. But I assure you, the hangman will do a far quicker and more painless job of it than you are about to."

Bill's eyebrows furrowed, struggling to keep up with Sherlock's conclusions, but a few points seemed to stick with him.

"Take the boy then, the worthless rat. But you won't be catching up with me." And with that he grabbed onto the rope above his head with his other hand and swung himself off the ledge.

The rope snapped taut, and with it came a sickening crack as Bill's shoulder, unable to take the strain, dislocated from its socket. No longer hindered by the joint, the rope tightened even more severely around his neck, choking off his agonised cry into a splutter. Sherlock wasn't much concerned by his cries however, he was more worried at the one from above, as the violent wrench on the beam shook Oliver loose from his perch leaving him dangling by his fingertips.

In the few seconds it took Sherlock to reach the end of the balcony, he'd calculated that it would be possible to save either one of them: he could reel Bill in and loosen the pressure on his neck choking the life out of him, or he could catch Oliver before he slipped, setting him down safely. But he couldn't do both. In the time taken to save Oliver, Bill would choke, and in the time it took to get Bill, Oliver would fall.

As life and death decisions went, it was the easiest Sherlock ever made.

* * *

 _AN: Almost forgot it was Wednesday today, that's what happens when I get a week off. Hope I didn't keep any of you waiting, you loyal lot. As you probably guessed, were getting close to the end now, just two chapters to go. Thanks to all my followers who have come along on this adventure with me, I couldn't do it without you :)_


	12. Su Casa

**Chapter 12 - Su Casa**

 _May 18th 1870 - 221b Baker Street, London_

"No! No, I can't go back! You can't make me." Oliver protested loudly, running back up the stairs to the upstairs bedroom where he had spent the night, and slamming the door behind him. He had been perfectly placid the night before, probably out of shock from his ordeal, but now his spirits had returned in shocking force at the revelation that they were to be taking him back to his home that morning. Sherlock and Molly just looked at one another after his display, Molly with concern clear in her eyes, and Sherlock with nonchalance.

"Don't look at me, I did my part finding him, emotions are your area." Sherlock easily conceded with a shrug, heading back to his armchair to wait.

"Okay..." Molly quietly bolstered herself as she turned to follow the boy. "Oliver?" She called gently as she knocked on the bedroom door. There was no response so she let herself in and was only slightly surprised to feel a draught from the open window and see Oliver with one leg out of it. She gave a slight smile at a memory it conjured and calmly seated herself on the edge of the bed. "Running away again? I tried it once myself you know, didn't make it very far before Sherlock caught me. Literally."

Oliver frowned, sitting on the windowsill and looking at the doorway she'd come in and then her, before whispering conspiratorially, "Are you a prisoner here?"

Molly couldn't help a giggle at the boy's reasoning and the concerned look in his eye.

"No, no I chose to stay with Sherlock. There were some things I didn't understand when I tried to leave, but when I stopped to listen I found I didn't want to leave at all. I think you should do the same." She paused to let that sink in, and when he made no attempt to carry on his escape and she was sure he was listening, she continued. "Your mother needs you, Oliver. She needs you to go home, you're all she has left."

Though he made no further attempts to leave, Oliver shook his head vehemently.

"No. _You_ don't understand. I can't go back there, not after what I've done. She's better off without me." There were tears in his little eyes now, though he turned his head to hide them and scrubbed his eyes with his hands to dash them away.

"That's not true." Molly said gently, getting up and perching next to him on the windowsill so she could put a comforting arm around him.

"It is!" Oliver pulled out of her embrace, and hopped down from the window to stand helplessly in the middle of the room "Everyone around me gets hurt! First I killed my Papa, now Nancy will probably die Mr Holmes said, and Bill got hanged-"

"That wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault. Nancy might yet pull through, she's in the best hands we know. And your Father..." Molly hesitated. The truth wasn't pretty, it would probably upset him just as much, but it was the truth and he needed to know it. Sherlock never seemed to have any problem laying out painful truths, and for once she envied his candour. Yet, he must have known this was the issue that made Oliver hesitant to return, and he had still elected her to be the bearer of the news, knowing her empathy was better suited to the task. Bolstered by his faith in her, Molly moved once more towards Oliver, crouching before him and taking his small hands in hers.

"Oliver it wasn't you who killed your father. It was his brother, Edward."

"Uncle Edward?!" Oliver's face was the picture of shock and disbelief, "No... no it was the horses, he said I scared them with the horn-"

"Yes they were frightened, but not by you. Edward arranged it, he told you it was your fault so you'd run away. I'm sorry."

"Why? Why would he do that?" The boy sobbed, wrenching at Mollys heart. She shuffled forwards more to rub his arms soothingly, and he surrendered himself into her arms, clinging to her for comfort.

"For your father's money. I'm so sorry. That's why..." she struggled to talk through the lump in her throat, but pushed forward "That's why you had to go too, you see, because you're next in line before him, so he planned for-" the words just wouldn't come out, she couldn't tell him that his uncle tried to kill him too, so she skipped over it -"But he failed, and Sherlock helped the police prove it was him, so they're going to take him away and you can go back, and claim what's yours."

"I don't want it." Oliver mumbled into her shoulder. Of course, Molly thought, that was the beauty of childhood innocence. What child wouldn't prefer a happy family over riches?

"I know. And that's a good thing." She assured him, pulling back to look Oliver in the eye. "Do you know why? Because it means you take after your father."

Oliver nodded, but his lip still trembled.

"When I ran away it was like he was still there back home, and it was me who was gone." Oliver confided in a small voice. "But now when I go back, he won't be there and it will be real."

Molly knew the feeling, remembering how painful it had been she had lost her father, and how she had spent several nights at the Lestrade's home before she could bear to go home. But then she remembered, something Gregory had told her. It hadn't made it better, but it had helped. "He'll be there." She half whispered. "Because he'll be with you. Right here." She pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart, and then got up, holding out a hand for him to take. "Come here a moment." She instructed, leading him over to the full length standing mirror in the corner. "Don't you see him?"

Oliver stared hard at the mirror, as though he expected to see his father's ghost hovering behind him in it. When nothing appeared he shook his head.

"Look harder." Molly gently encouraged, giving him another few seconds before deciding to help him along. "Your eyes are definitely your mother's, but where did this fair hair come from I wonder? And this strong jaw? And oh, was that a smile? Well that has to be your father's."

"How do you know all this? Did you know my Papa?" Oliver looked up at her, far happier than he had been moments ago.

"No, I've only seen pictures, back at the house and - oh, I nearly forgot!" Sherlock had given Molly Oliver's locket to keep hold of after relieving it from Fagin's stash, and she drew it out of her pocket now, handing it to Oliver.

"My locket! You found it! I thought i'd lost it!" Oliver cried out, snatching it up and cradling it to his chest, before opening it up to gaze at the pictures of his parents inside.

"Sherlock found it," Molly told him, though she decided against telling him where "He's very good at finding things. So are you ready to go home now, so we can tell your mother we found you?"

Oliver slipped the chain around his neck before looking up at Molly and nodding. She put an arm around his shoulders to gently guide him from the room and back downstairs. They were halfway down when a booming laugh from Sherlock in the living room broke the silence. While her husband's mirth had her instinctively smiling, she was curious and slightly concerned at what could have him laughing so much, since generally the things he found amusing were not for children's eyes. She didn't have long to wait for an answer, as they reached the bottom of the stairs she could clearly see Mycroft standing in the middle of the room, his face rosy with irritation, as Sherlock giggled away at the dossier in his hand.

"I fail to see what is so funny in the matter, brother dear, you know what kind of sensitive documents pass through my hands. This is a matter of not just the security of my own home, but _national_ security!" He ranted, though it only seemed to increase Sherlock's mirth. Looking about for a voice of reason, and no doubt having heard her come down the stairs, Mycroft turned to Molly, only to startle and stare in shock at Oliver under her arm.

"That's him! That's the boy who broke into my house!" He pointed accusingly at Oliver, causing the boy to shrink back behind Molly.

"I know that's the boy, that's why I'm laughing." Sherlock answered, chucking the dossier down on the coffee table, revealing a rather good sketch-artist's impression of Oliver.

"So I suppose this was you was it?" Mycroft turned back on his brother, "You won't respond to any of my telegrams, but send your... minions to break into my home and poke around!"

"No Mycroft, unlike you _I_ don't feel the need to monitor my sibling's every movement. Though clearly you're slipping if you weren't aware of my latest case. Besides, if I wanted to break into your _château_ I can think of no less than three ways I could have done so myself. Using a child is a good one though, I'll have to add it to the list." Sherlock mused, before turning to Oliver "How did you get in anyway? The cellar windows?"

"Uh..." Oliver looked uncertainly between the two Holmes brothers, then up at Molly for reassurance.

"Sherlock." Molly rebuked him in a word.

"Fine. Rest assured Mycroft, that the man responsible for sending Oliver into _su casa_ was simply after your riches, not information. Also, he's dead now, so I very much doubt he'll be making a second attempt. Now if you'll excuse us, it's time we returned the boy to his mother." he announced, getting up and making his way past Mycroft to Molly and Oliver by the door, before aiming a Parthian shot over his shoulder at his brother. "You remember Irene, don't you?"

"Miss Adler, or whatever she calls herself now?" Mycroft said, his eyebrows shooting up in concern, before coming back down in another examination of the boy. "Well that does explain a lot."

Molly sent Mycroft a warning glare, mouthing ' _Be nice_!', before ushering Oliver away down the stairs after Sherlock, who hadn't bothered to wait for his brother's reaction.

"You'll be pleased to know I received word from John this morning, Nancy is awake and it looks like she'll recover nicely." He informed them as they caught up "With the Hyenas and Sykes dead, her testimony will be quite pivotal in putting Edward away. For now, Lestrade has enough to arrest the man on my evidence and the fact he saw Edward approaching the alley outside Fagin's last night, before turning and fleeing when he saw Lestrade questioning Fagin. Obviously he was there to- ouch!" Molly elbowed him, preventing him saying anything else about Edward being there to see Oliver killed, at risk of upsetting the poor child. Sherlock turned a betrayed ' _what-was-that-for?'_ look on her, to which she answered with a ' _you-know-exactly-what_ ' eyebrow raise, even though she wasn't entirely sure he did.

"Anyway, Lestrade and his team should be there as we arrive, making the arrest. I do love it when all the ends tie up nicely!" Sherlock finished.

"Will you be okay with that Oliver?" Molly asked, sensitive to the rollercoaster of emotions the boy must be suffering about his uncle.

"Mm-hmm." The boy bravely agreed, though his little hand gripped Molly's a little tighter.

"Why wouldn't he be?" Sherlock asked, genuinely perplexed. Molly just shook her head at him, and he desisted, knowing she would fill him in later. He stayed pensively silent for the rest of the journey out to the estate in Kilburn, though his excitement at finishing a case became more palpable the closer they drew to their destination, as did Oliver's nerves.

When their carriage pulled up on the estate, the police wagon was already there, and Edward was being loaded into the back in irons. Lestrade stood on the front steps overseeing the process, a cautious distance from Irene and her dark skinned butler. Irene was stoic and dignified as she stood, even though the dark circles beneath her eyes betrayed the strain of the last week upon her. As soon as Oliver followed Sherlock out of the carriage however, her countenance brightened and her composure broke.

"Oliver!" She cried out, flying down the steps and past the police carriage to meet Oliver, and dropping to her knees on the pebbled drive, not in the least bothered about ruining her fancy skirts as she pulled her son into a tight, tearful embrace. Molly felt sympathetic tears spring to her own eyes as she watched the mother fussing over her son, and decided it would be best to give them a moments peace, making her way up to the front steps, where Sherlock had gone straight to Lestrade and was already engaged in conversation with him.

"-took some persuading but I managed it, even without your brother's clout." Lestrade was saying.

"Very good, Inspector. You can take all the credit of course, no need to mention my involvement."

"Yeah, like that ever works. Molly, nice to see you." Greg turned to her in greeting, "He dragged you along to show off solving the thing, did he?"

"Oh I couldn't miss the reunion. It's beautiful, isn't it?" Molly said, wiping away a tear.

"Yeah, it's something." Lestrade agreed, glancing back over at the happy family "I admit I was a bit dubious when I heard of Miss A- I mean Mrs Leeford's involvement in this case-"

"That's an understatement." Sherlock put in.

"- But she does look happy to see her son again. Seems like motherhood has settled her. I wonder if it works for fathers too..." Lestrade finished giving Sherlock a sidelong look.

"I don't know what you're getting at." Sherlock straight-faced.

Grinning, Lestrade turned back to Molly, before clearing his throat and become serious once again.

"Anyway, I'm glad you came along, Molly. I actually had something I wished to discuss with you."

"Oh?"

"Shall we-?" Lestrade gestured for them to walk away from the scene, and after a quick glance to Sherlock for his approval - which he gave in a nod - Molly followed, intrigued.

Left behind, Sherlock turned his attention back to Irene. He also had a topic of discussion on his mind, and felt the crying and hugging had gone on quite long enough, so stepped down to join the mother and son.

"If you have a moment Irene, there are still some details of the case we need to go over."

"If I have a moment?!" Irene looked up at him, aghast at him for thinking to interrupt her reunion with her son. Before she could rebuke him further however, Oliver fell into a rather nasty coughing fit, and the mothers attention was once again stolen solely by her child.

"Oh, sweetie, that doesn't sound good, are you feeling alright?" She cooed, laying the back of her hand on his forehead to feel his temperature.

"He suffered a fever during his time in London." Sherlock supplied after Oliver's mute head shake."

"To bed with you then. Rafiki!" Irene called over to her butler as she stood and dusted her knees off "Take Oliver up to his room, make sure he has everything he needs." She passed Oliver off to the elderly butler, who just smiled knowingly and lead the young boy away.

"Let's talk then." She then suggested to Sherlock, leading the way into the house with her usual swagger back in place. She took him into a small, but elaborately furnished parlour room immediately to the left of the front door, which overlooked the scene outside, but gave them a bit of privacy.

"I presume this is about payment?" Irene asked in a businesslike fashion, making her way to the bureau and opening it up in search of a chequebook.

"Oh please, Irene, you know how little I care for money, a good case is reward enough in itself." Sherlock dismissed "Though if you wish, feel free to send whatever you feel an adequate payment once your affairs are in order."

"Thank you." She agreed with soft earnestness. "But then what is this about? The case is closed, You brought my son home and got justice for my husband, what else is there to discuss?"

"Just one detail remains. I stopped by the records office yesterday, there was some things I wished to clarify, about Oliver's lineage." Sherlock dropped like bait. Irene's face hardened in response.

"What, you think I was lying about him being my son?" She demanded in outrage, "You think I just happened to find a rich orphan I could claim to be my own? Or is it that you think Richard wasn't really his father, that I was pregnant with someone else's child and lied to marry into money?"

"No." Sherlock answered, inscrutably calm in the face of her anger, "I have no doubt he is both yours and Richard's son, that is perfectly clear in his inherited features. You misunderstand, it was not Oliver's parents I wished to read about in the records. It was yours."

* * *

 _AN: Personal head canon that I couldn't find a good time to write in: Mycroft was actually the one who drew the sketch of Oliver he showed Sherlock. It tickles me to think he could have an artistic side under there. Much of this chapter was in fact filling in area I had to leave blank before, that is the unfortunate downside of adapting two stories told from the child's perspective, and following Sherlock solving them instead. The butler called Rafiki I had meant to involve earlier as well, but I couldn't find the right time. And Molly stole some of his lines in this chapter because I thought it would be better coming from her... anyone recognise what they were?_

 _Just one more chapter and a few more loose ends to tie up. Thank you to my four commenters last chapter, you know who you are by now :p if anyone else wants to pop in and tell me what you think, please do!_


	13. Raison D'Être

**Chapter 13 - Raison D'Être**

 _May 18th 1870 - The Leeford's Manor, Kilburn_

"I admit it took me a little while to find the correct records, but then you know that already, since you had them changed." Sherlock pressed his advantage at her stunned silence. "Adler wasn't your real maiden name, was it? It was your mother's. Not a terribly clever alias, but then that's not why you changed it."

He could see the debate in Irene's mind behind the pursing of her lips; the barriers she had carefully crafted over the years were being torn down before her eyes, and her reluctance to let them go with anyone warred with her respect with the man in front of her. The man who returned her child to her, seeking no profit but this information she held dear.

"It seemed more appropriate to take my mother's name, rather than the brute she happened to be married to." She admitted eventually "He wasn't my father, in fact he spent so much time inebriated, I very much doubt he could sire a child if he tried."

"So your mother took a lover." Sherlock supplied, prompting her along.

"A string of them, in fact. She was rather plain to look at, my mother, but she had a talent for seduction. It was her who taught me that looks will only get you so far, and that confidence and body language go far further. I was fortunate to have both of course." She backed this up by flashing Sherlock one of her most smouldering looks, but as ever he remained unmoved by it, waiting for something else entirely. "I don't see what this has to do with the case however, besides satisfying your limitless curiosity."

It was this that turned up a smile at the corners of Sherlock's lips, and he launched into explaining his deductions without further ado.

"While Oliver was in London I tracked him to an old man's house where he'd spent a night. Mr Brownlow was ever so disappointed that he'd moved on, on account of the resemblance Oliver holds to the man's long lost daughter. Though clearly not the same woman, you too bear a resemblance to Agnes Brownlow. My search at the records office turned up information that John Brownlow and his brother Matthew ran a small business together for a while in the same street where your parents lived at the time she fell pregnant with you."

"You mean-" Irene said breathlessly.

"Yes, it is entirely possible, nay, probable that the man Oliver stayed with is in fact your father, or your uncle. I favour uncle, as he was courting the woman who would become his wife at the time, and he still remains single after her death, so I highly doubt he's an adulterer... but either way, I'm certain he could give you answers."

The hopeful look in Irene's eyes hardened, as she locked it down under her walls once again.

"What makes you think I need answers? You think I couldn't have found this out myself were I interested? I never cared to know who my father was before, I never needed him, so why would I now?"

"I never said you did. But Oliver might." Sherlock replied, his voice soft but firm, pulling her along for every word. "There's something else I found out in the records office; you mentioned he lost his paternal grandparents, you didn't say it was less than a year ago. Now he's lost his father, and he's just seen his remaining uncle led away in chains. That's all the men in his family gone in the space of a year. I'm no expert in... well people really, but especially children. Yet something tells me a young man like that needs at least some kind of father-figure in his life, no matter how remarkable his mother may be." He paused to let Irene absorb his words, before reverting back to his usual callous persona. "Or perhaps I just want to know I'm right."

The spell of his words on Irene broke, and she let out a peal of laughter at his act. Her eyes drifted away in thought, before refocusing out the window, and then sliding back to Sherlock.

"Then I'll have to let you know. If you promise me one thing."

"Oh what now?"

"You be good to that wife of yours. Because she is good for you."

Sherlock didn't answer aloud, just turned to show himself out. The smile on his face and glint in his eye said it all though; _I intend to._

* * *

When Sherlock rejoined Molly outside, she was all but buzzing with excitement, a spark he had not seen in some time dancing in her eyes and an uncontainable smile on her face. Of course, he pretended to ignore these things, not allowing her to properly catch his eye until he had shared some parting words and instructions with Lestrade, as he helped her up into the carriage that brought them and directed the driver to take them to the Watson's residence rather than their own. As soon as the carriage started rolling and silence fell however, her excitement bubbled over and burst out of her.

"Oh Sherlock, I have the most exciting news! Gregory offered me a job!"

"A job?" Sherlock scoffed, "What, at Scotland Yard?"

"Uh-huh, in the morgue!" Molly replied in unabashed glee "Their current coroner is retiring, and Gregory remembered how I used to help Michael at the one in Finchley so he persuaded his superiors that I would be a good fit. Isn't it great!"

Sherlock frowned. "But if you're working how can you assist me in my cases when I need you? And there's my experiments to consider, you know I trust their attention to no-one else. And what about when I don't have a case on?"

"Well, you can always come see me in the morgue. Maybe you could do your experiments down there, then I can still keep an eye on them. Most of them require body-parts anyway." She tried to appease him, optimism un-dented.

"And who will provide me with hot meals when I return from a hard day's investigating? My transport needs fuel, Molly."

"I'll still cook for you when I can, and if I can't I'm sure Mrs Hudson would be most happy to do it. I think she misses it actually... oh she'll be so pleased to hear about my job!"

"Hmm." Sherlock grumbled, turning to look pensively out of the window at the passing scenery. He heard the rustle of fabric besides him and a weight against his hip just before Molly planted a light kiss on his cheek. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw her settling into a more serious expression, though she still smiled warmly at him.

"Thank you." She said simply.

"For what? I didn't say you could take the job yet."

"Yes you did. To Lestrade." Her eyes twinkled with a _got-you-mister_ mischief.

"He told on me?" Sherlock smirked, letting the act slide.

"No. I deduced you." Molly grinned smugly, before giving him his space again and straightening up in her seat with far-away eyes. "This will be good." She said decisively. "And I can be far more helpful at the morgue rather than making myself a nuisance of myself at home."

The hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck prickled, as if he were at a crime scene and danger were near. There was something loaded in her words, an emotional minefield lurking beneath his feet that he had been hoping to avoid by getting her this job in the first place. It seemed he had no choice but attempt to navigate it, though he feared the worst as his emotional compass was known to be wonky on occasion. More than on occasion if he were honest.

"You're not a nuisance." He ventured, though it didn't come across as casually as he'd have liked.

"It's okay, Sherlock." She said, in a voice a little too melancholy to be okay. "I know you don't like being fussed over, and it's my fault you didn't get Oliver back earlier because I was trying to force you to rest rather then letting you do your thing your way, and I've not been very good at -"

"If you think that's why I did this, you are wrong." Sherlock cut her off before she could work herself up any more. He wouldn't lie and say she hadn't set him back in the case, but he didn't hold it against her either.

"It isn't?" Molly asked uncertainly.

"No." Sherlock repositioned himself to face her better in the small space, playing for time while trying to choose his words. "You looked sad, when you thought I couldn't see. I always see you Molly, and what's more I know what that sad look means. I saw the same one on my face many times in the mirrors of Holmes Manor before you came along. Boredom is my old nemesis, but it goes deeper than that; it's the look of having worked so hard for something, only to have it ripped away by an injustice. Being a consulting detective is my _raison d'être_ , and I think post-mortems is yours. You were never meant for sitting at home waiting to bear a child. Though-" Sherlock hesitated. This conversation had already required a great deal of sentiment and openness already, and to finish this sentence would be to hold absolutely nothing back. As uncomfortable as that made him, he couldn't disappoint the bright and hopeful look on Molly's face.

"-seeing you with Oliver today made me realise that when the time comes you will make a fine mother as well." Sherlock rushed it out, barely louder than a mutter as though hoping it wouldn't be heard

"Oh Sherlock!" Molly cried happily, lost for any other words to express how happy his words made her. Instead she leaned right out of her seat to smother him in affection, only to be stopped by Sherlock's hand on her sternum, pushing her away.

"Please Molly, this is still a semi-public place, you know how I feel about public affection." A fire sparked in his eyes as he lowered his voice in both volume and pitch. "When we get home though..."

Molly blushed almost scarlet, but behaved herself for the rest of the journey.

* * *

The cab dropped Sherlock and Molly off at the Watson's residence, where Mary was preparing a celebratory dinner for the finishing of the case. Almost as soon as Sherlock knocked on the door, a cry of "I'll get it!" erupted from an upstairs window. Seconds later the door swung open, Charlotte looking hopefully expectant behind it. Her hopeful expression dimmed to slight disappointment when she beheld the visitors however.

"Oh, hello Sherlock, Molly." She said in a far more casual tone, stepping aside to admit them, while already turning away. "Father! The Holmes are here!" She called to him as he came out of the side study.

"Yes dear, I can see that." He responded smiling, his smile slipping into a bewildered expression as she disappeared upstairs again without a second glance at her old heartthrob. Once she was well and truly out of earshot he turned on Sherlock. "Okay, what did you do?"

"What makes you think I did anything?" Sherlock defended, taking his wife's coat after removing his own and hanging both up as though it were his own home.

"Maybe because my daughter isn't jumping up and down at the sight of you like she usually does. I can only assume you've said or done something to upset her-"

"And here I thought your deductions had been improving." Sherlock shook his head and pulled a face of mock disappointment, "You are way off of course. She simply has a new object of her affections, and one whom reciprocates at that."

"She what?!" John erupted, in fatherly protectiveness.

"Yes, she's been exchanging love notes with the bakers's boy as he makes his morning deliveries for about a week now." Sherlock casually announced, though Molly detected a mischievous glint in his eye that spoke of how much he was enjoying himself.

"Well that just won't do! I won't have any of this cloak and dagger nonsense in my house, if a young man wants to court my daughter he must do so the proper way and to ask for my permission first-" John set off on a rant.

"Oh but he intends to." Sherlock took the wind out of his sails. "Why do you think Charlotte was so eager to answer the door? Do keep up, he's coming to dinner to introduce himself and ask you. Hardly a difficult deduction."

John's jaw worked inaudibly for a few seconds, seeking out a new avenue for his anger as the party made their way through to the dining room, where John spotted his inspiration. "Well that's an improvement, but really, turning up unannounced is hardly a good start. My poor wife has been slaving over a hot stove all day to make dinner, and now she'll have to worry about whether she'll have another for an extra person."

"Not at all, Mary already knows. See, she already laid out the extra table setting." Sherlock pointed out. John's eyes widened comically as he counted up the place settings.

"She knows? Of course she knows, why am I _always_ the last to know anything?"

"If it's any consolation, I didn't know." Molly stepped in to comfort him before Sherlock could rub it in any further. "And personally I think it's lovely that Charlotte has found a suitor."

John seemed to settle somewhat, but he still grimaced as the a new knock sounded at the front door, and once again Charlotte shouted "I'll get it!" before pounding down the stairs. An idea seemed to occur to him and he leaned in conspiratorially to Sherlock.

"I don't suppose you could-"

"I already did a full background check on the boy and his family. It was incredibly boring, they're perfectly ordinary bakers, no hint of criminal activity. The lad is hardworking and well spoken of, and as the eldest child, stands to inherit the family business. A perfectly good suitor." Sherlock told him, sounding a little disappointed.

"Hmm." John huffed, with all the disapproval of a father who thinks no man could ever be good enough for his daughter. He quickly straightened out his expression though, as his daughter appeared, followed by _the suitor._

"Father, I'd like you for to meet my friend, Tom. Mama said he could join us for dinner, if that's alright with you."

John's eyes scanned the boy from head to toe, taking in his long coat, scarf and dark curly hair, so similar to his friend's. He gave a strained smile, holding up a finger to ask them to wait a second, then turned his back to them, facing Sherlock.

"Something you forgot to mention in your description?" He murmured so his daughter wouldn't hear.

"I didn't want to spoil the surprise." Sherlock answered just as quietly, keeping a poker face though his eyes glittered with concealed laughter. John's answering glare was unamused, but when he turned back to face the youths he presented a smile again.

"Of course, sweetheart, the more the merrier."

As it turned out, the boy went a long way towards gaining John's approval when he mentioned over dinner how his entire family liked to read John's stories in The Strand Magazine. After that dinner was spent discussing the boy's favourites and filling him in on details that didn't make it to the printed page.

"And I suppose you'll be writing up this latest case for the weekend edition, John?" Molly asked.

"Oh yes, I'm sure people will want to hear about this one." John agreed. "Everyone loves a happy ending, especially when there's a child involved. I'm thinking of calling it 'The twisting tale of Oliver'."

"It's a bit long, don't you think Love?" Mary chipped in.

"Oliver's Twist?" John suggested.

"Oh for goodness sake." Sherlock groaned, "That's terrible. Besides, I doubt Irene will be happy with you using their real names in your piece. Let them have their privacy."

"Mm, good point. I suppose I will have to change some details..."

"Oh, you should make Oliver a prince!" Charlotte piped up, "And his uncle was trying to usurp the throne by killing his father, and Sherlock had to find the prince and bring him home so he could knock his uncle off the throne and take back his rightful place!"

"Well that is a bit of an extreme alteration, dear." John let her down as gently as he could, "Though 'The Lying King' does have a ring to it..."

 **The End**

* * *

 _AN: That's all folks! Thank you all so much for reading, and especially to the four reviewers who stuck with me to the end: .Hamiltrash, Joycelyn. , Elbafo and LRRH17._

 _I currently have no plans to write any more fanfiction for a little while at least, though I'm sure should the muse strike me I'll be right back at it again. If you're at a loss for what to read next, I strongly suggest the 'After the Fall' series by the author Edhla, if you haven't already read her works. She is in my opinion, one of the best writers on here (if not **the** best) and definitely worth a look. _

_Until next time: Au revior!_


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